OLRIG    GRANGE. 


S^A\rh,WJ^^i^  (f/^A'/^-'x 


EDITED   BY 


HERMANN,  KiJNST,  PHILOL.  PROFESSOR. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1872. 


k,k' 


From   Advance   Sheets. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bicelow,  &  Co., 
Cambriucs. 


Wa 


Accept.,  my  Friend,  this  Offering  slight. 
Familiar  Photographs  in  verse  ; 

No  subtle  matter  I  indite, 

A^or  tale  of  strange  events  rehearse. 
Nor  polish  'ivit  in  couplets  terse : 

But  shadozus  from  our  age  that  fall. 

Make  pictures  in  a  chamber  small, 
Where,  late,  I  found  these  characters 
Of  Folk  that  are  living  —  next  door  to  us  all. 


CONTENTS. 


3Sook  JFirst. 

Page 

Editorial 9 

Loquitur  Thorold i6 

33ooft  Secontt. 

Editorial 43 

Loquitur  Hester 49 

38aofe  E\}ix'a. 

Editorial 75 

Loquitur  Mater  Domina So 

iSook  jFourtlj. 

Editorial i°7 

Loquitur  Pater         ...                ...  113 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Book  JFiCtfj. 

Editorial 137 

LoQ/UiTUR  Rose 142 

Book  5titlj. 

Editorial 171 

Loquitur  Thorold 178 


\ 


l00k  Jfxrst. 


/ 


I,  Herr  Professor  Kiinst,  Philologus, 
Editor  of  these  rhymes,  —  having  no  knack 
That  way,  myself,  to  make  my  words  go  chime, 
Or  none  that  makes  a  crystal  of  my  thought, 
Face  answering  to  face,  and  so  built  up 
By  inward  force  of  Law  inevitable,  — 
Care  not  to  tag  mere  fringes  to  my  lines, 
And  mar  their  meaning.     'T  is  a  pretty  sight 
The  lissome  maiden  dancing  her  light  measure, 
And  keeping  time  with  Castanet  or  timbrel, 
When  maiden,  dance,  and  timbrel  all  are  one 
Joy  of  great  nature.     But  enough  for  me 
The  unwonted  dance  without  the  castanet, 
1* 


lO 


EDITORIAL. 


The  measured  tread  without  the  timnig  jingle. 
God  giveth  speech  to  all,  song  to  the  few. 

A  quaint  old  gateway,  flanked  on  either  side 

By  grim,  heraldic  beasts  with  beak  and  claw 

And  scaly  coating,  —  yet  four-footed  beasts,  — 

Opened  into  a  long,  straight  avenue, 

Lined  by  rough  elms,  stunted,  and  sloping  west, 

And  nipped  by  sharp  sea-winds.     Without  a  turn 

It  ran  up  to  a  tall,  slim,  gray  old  house, 

With  many  blinking  windows,  row  on  row, 

And  high-pitched  gables  rising,  step  by  step, 

Above  heraldic  beasts  with  beak  and  claw. 

That  pranced  at  every  corner.     A  green  bank, 

Broken  with  flower-plots,  on  the  one  side  dropt 

Down  to  a  prattling  brook  :  upon  the  other 

A  group  of  brown  Scotch  firs  reared  their  straight  boles 

And  spreading  crowns,  dotted  with  cawing  rooks  : 

And  then  a  holly  hedge  engirt  the  place, 

Which  aUoLrether  covered  scant  an   acre. 


EDITORIAL.  J I 

Eastward  you  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sea, 
And  the  white  pillar  of  the  lighthouse  tall 
Guarding  the  stormy  Ness  :  a  minster  church 
Loomed  with  twin  steeples  high  above  the  smoke 
Of  a  brisk  burgh,  offspring  of  the  church 
And  of  the  sea,  and  with  an  old  Norse  love 
Of  the  salt  water,  and  the  house  of  God, 
And  letters  and  adventure.     On  the  west, 
Cleft  by  the  stream,  a  slow-retiring  hill 
Embayed  a  goodly  space  which  once  had  been 
Waste  moorland  for  the  curlew,  and  the  snipe 
Haunted  its  marshes.     Lately,  growing  wealth, 
From  fleets  of  fishing  craft,  and  ventures  far 
To  Greenland  and  Archangel,  had  subdued 
The  peat-hag  and  the  stony  wilderness : 
And  here  and  there  a  citizen's  country-house 
Stood  among  fields  where  cattle  browsed,  or  corn 
Was  rustling  :  yet  there  still  were  here  and  there 
Stretches  of  heathy  moss  and  yellow  gorse, 
And  desert  places  strewn  with  white  bleached  stones. 


12  EDITORIAL. 

And  gray  rocks  tufted  o'er  with  birch  and  hazel. 
And  through  the  gorse,  and  over  rock  and  stone, 
The  pratthng  brook  leaped  downward  to  the  sea. 

The  slim,  gray  house  with  its  heraldic  beasts. 

Nestling  in  its  scant  acre  of  flower-plots 

And  greensward,  at  the  end  of  the  elm-tree  drive, 

Stood  plainly  in  ancestral  dignity, 

Aloof  from  citizen's  villa  :  shorn  of  wealth, 

It  was  the  home  of  culture  and  simple  taste, 

And  heir  of  fine  traditions. 

By  the  door, 
V/here  it  was  hid  by  lioneysuckle  sprays 
And  brier-rose  that  trailed  around  the  porch, 
There  stood  a  youth,  at  early  twilight,  making 
Impatient  gestures,  switching  thistle-down 
And  nettle  and  dandchon,  and  whate'er 
His  hasty  stroke  miglit  reach  ;  yet  humorous 
Rather  than  fretful,  for  the  art  was  his 
To  break  vexations  with  a  ready  jest, 


EDITORIAL. 


13 


As  one  that,  on  the  stirrup  duly  rising, 

Rides  lightly  through  the  world.     A  graceful  youth, 

And  tall,  and  slightly  stooping,  with  features  high 

And  thin  and  colorless ;  yet  earnest  life 

Beamed  full  of  hope  and  energy  and  help 

From  his  great  lustrous  eyes,  though  now  and  then 

They  swam  into  a  dreamy,  far-off  gaze. 

As  seeing  the  invisible.     He  was 

A  student  who  had  travelled  many  a  field 

Of  arduous  learning,  planted  venturous  foot 

On  giddy  ledge  of  speculative  thought, 

And  searched  for  truth  o'er  mountain,  shore,  and  sea, 

In  stone  and  flower,  and  every  living  thing 

Where  he  might  read  the  open  secret  of  God 

With  his  own  eyes,  and  ponder  out  its  meaning. 

Intent  he  was  to  know,  and  knowing  do 

The  work  laid  to  his  hand  ;  yet  evermore, 

As  he  toiled  up  the  solemn  stair  with  joy. 

Caught  by  some  outlook  on  a  larger  world. 

He  seemed  to  pause,  and  gaze,  and  dream  a  dream. 


J  4  EDITORIAL. 


These  moods  I  noted  when  he  was  my  pupil, 
And  some  strange  vocable  from  India, 
Or  fragment  of  the  old  Egyptian  speech, 
Would  suddenly  arrest  his  eager  quest, 
And  sunder  us,  like  the  ocean  or  the  grave. 

So  stood  he,  in  the  twilight,  near  his  home, 
And  waiting  for  his  sister,  smote  the  weeds  ; 
Impetuous,  humorous,  bright,  and  mystical. 
The  wonder  and  the  glory  of  the  place. 
Scarce  out  of  boyhood,  yet  the  pride  of  all. 

Trained  for  a  priest,  for  that  is  still  the  pride 

And  high  ambition  of  the  Scottish  mother, 

There  was  a  kind  of  priestly  purity 

In  him.   and  a  deep,  solemn  undertone 

Ran  through  his  gayest  fimcies,  and  his  heart 

Reached  out  with  manifold  sympathies,  and  laid 

Fast  hold  on  many  outcast  and  alone 

r  the  world.     Uut  being  challen^red  at  the  door 


EDITORIAL. 

Of  God's  high  Temple  to  indue  himself 
With  armor  that  he  had  not  proved,  to  clothe 
With  articles  of  ready-made  Belief 
His  Faith  inquisitive,  he  rent  the  Creed 
Trying  to  fit  it  on,  and  cast  it  from  him  ; 
Then  took  it  up  again,  and  found  it  worn 
With  age,  and  riddled  by  the  moth,  and  rotten. 
Therefore  he  trod  it  under  foot,  and  went 
Awhile  with  only  scant  fig-leaves  to  clothe 
His  naked  spirit,  longing  after  God, 
But  striving  more  for  knowledge  than  for  faith. 
The  Priest  was  left  behind ;  the  hope  of  Glory 
Became  pursuit  of  Fame  ;  and  yet  a  light 
From  heaven  kept  hovering  always  over  him, 
Like  twilight  from  a  sun  that  had  gone  down. 


15 


ILoquitur   5ll)oroltl. 

/"AUICK,  Hester,  quick !   the  old  scarlet  cloak 
r-^^      And  silken  hood  are  dainty  trim 
'Mong  birch  and  hazel  and  lichened  rock ; 
The  sun  is  but  a  little  rim 
Above  the  hill,  and  twilight  dim 
Is  settling  o'er  the  leaping  brook 
Where  we  our  summer  pleasance  took 
When  youth  was  light  of  heart  and  limb. 
And  Life  was  the  dream  of  a  Fairy  Book. 

Quick!  let  us  spend  the  gloaming  there: 
A  plague  on  bonnets,  shawls,  and  pins, 

And  last  nice  touches  of  the  hair. 
That  just  begin  when  one  begins 


lOQUITUR    THOROLD.  17 

To  lose  his  patience !     Women's  sins 
Are  not  alone  the  ills  they  do, 
But  those  that  they  provoke  you  to, 

While  smiling  lips  and  dimpling  chins 
Wonder  what  can  be  the  matter  with  you. 

Well,  minx  !  I  hope  you  're  pleased  at  last : 
You  've  made  yourself  an  angel  nice, 

And  me  a  brute  this  half-hour  past. 
Now,  did  you  ever  count  the  price 
When  each  new  grace  costs  some  new  vice? 

You  fondle  a  curl, — my  wrath  I  pet; 

You  finger  a  ribbon,  —  I  fume  and  fret ; 
You  'd  ruin  a  husband  worse  than  dice. 
Buying  your  beauty  at  such  a  rate. 

Look,  how  the  slanting  sunbeams  long 
Gird  with  light-rings  the  gray  birch-trees  ; 

And  from  his  unseen  place  of  song 
The  skylark  on  the  evening  breeze 

B 


LOQU/TUR    TIIOROLD. 

Shakes  clown  his  fluttering  melodies: 
The  conies  from  their  burrows  creep, 
The  troutlets  in  the  still  pools  leap, 

The  pines  tlieir  odorous  gums  release, 
And  the  daisies  are  pink  in  their  dewy  sleep. 

Perchance  we  ne'er  shall  hear  again, 

Thus  hand  in  hand,  the  swift  brook  flow, 
Except  in  dreams  when  we  are  fain 

To  haunt  the  fabled  long-ago ; 

For  ere  to-morrow's  sun  is  low, 
I  haste  me  to  the  crowded  street 
Where  every  stranger  face  I  meet 

Shall  less  of  kithly  feeling  show 
Than  the  rippling  gleam  of  this  water  sweet. 

Nay,  dear ;  my  heart  is  full  of  hope ; 

Bid  me  not  stay  in  my  career. 
Our  little  Bourg  hath  little  scope 

For  aught  but  gossip  in  the  car  ; 


LOQUITUR   TIIOROLD.  19 

And  I  must  gird  me  to  appear 
A  man  among  the  strong  and  brave, 
A  man  with  purpose  high  and  grave, 

Still  fronting  duty  without  fear, 
And  helming  my  prow  to  the  threatening  wave. 

'T  was  sweet  to  dream  as  we  have  dreamed 

Together  in  years  long  ago. 
When  Life  might  be,  as  Fancy  deemed. 

For  aught  the  happy  child  could  know, 

A  bright  illusion,  and  a  show 
Create  at  will,  and  shaped  to  meet 
Each  changeful  whim,  and  quaint  conceit, 

And  varying  mood  of  joy  or  woe, 
Nor  ever  with  tragic  end  complete. 

But  ill  for  him  who  will  not  see 
The  dream  to  be  a  dream  indeed. 

And  life  a  foteful  mystery. 
And  iron  fact  the  only  creed 


20  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

To  lean  on  in  the  hour  of  need. 
The  child  may  dream ;  the  man  must  act 
■\\'ith  reverence  for  the  world's  great  fact ; 
And  look  to  toil  and  sweat  and  bleed, 
And  gather  his  energies  all  compact. 

Why  might  I  not  my  battle  fight 

Here  by  your  side  with  pen  and  book  ? 

Girls  never  understand  aright 

That  men  must  leave  the  ingle-nook 
And  for  a  larger  wisdom  brook 

Experience  of  a  harder  law, 

And  learn  humility  and  awe  : 

And  books  are  mirrors  where  you  look 
But  on  shadows  of  things  which  others  saw. 

How  sweet  the  old  brook  tinkles  still 
Through  daisy  mead  and  golden  broom. 

Where  once  we  placed  our  water-mill, 
And  heard  it  clicking  in  the  gloom, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  zi 

Hushed,  sleepless,  in  our  little  room ! 
Yonder,  we  caught  the  tiny  trout,  — 
Our  first,  —  you  carried  it  about 
All  day,  complaining  of  its  doom, 
And  trying  each  pool  if  its  life  were  gone  out. 

There  are  no  traces  of  the  mill : 

But  lo  !  our  garden  in  the  nook. 
The  walks,  we  sha;ped  with  simple  skill. 

Bordered  with  white  stones  from  the  brook ; 

And  there  are  still  some  flowers  we  took 
From  garden  plots,  and  planted  here  : 
Our  works  decay  and  disappear, 

God's  frailest  works  abide  and  look 
Down  on  the  ruins  we  toil  to  rear. 

Here  is  the  sloping  mossy  bank. 
With  slender  pansies  purple-eyed, 

And  drooping  harebells,  and  the  rank 
Plume-fern  in  all  its  palmy  pride; 


2  2  LOQUITUR    rilOROLD. 

And  yonder  the  still  waters  glide 
Where  the  big  rasps  and  brambles  grew;  — 
The  stream  was  deep  and  broad  for  you, 

And  there  my  imping  manhood  tried 
To  reach  at  them  for  my  sister  true. 

I.o !  here  we  dreamed  the  Pilgrim's  dream ; 

And  went  forth,  that  bright  summer  day, 
To  seek  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Along  the  strait  and  thorny  way 

Tangled  with  gorse  and  bramble  spray, 
But  never  found  the  wicket-gate  : 
Distraught,  our  mother  wandered  late. 

While  we  beside  the  mill-dam  lay, 
And  saw  the  newt  creep  'mong  the  bulrushes  great. 

There,  too,  we  dreamt  a  lonely  isle, 
With  white  waves  girdled  by  the  sea 

That  stormed  along  the  beach,  the  while 
A  good  ship  struggled  gallantly ; 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  23 

And  I  alone  must  saved  be, 
And  thou  wert  Friday,  by  and  by. 
Whose  mystic  footprint  caught  my  eye, 
On  the  brown  sand ;  and  thou  to  me 
Wert  slave  ever  ready  to  run  or  fly. 

And  we  had  Geni  of  the  Lamp,  — 
The  lamp  was  ne'er  so  rubbed  before ; 

And  jars  and  crocks  we  left  in  damp 
Odd  corners  all  the  night  or  more,- 
Which  we  as  fishers  hauled  ashore, 

Listening  to  hear  the  prisoned  Gin 

Bemoan  his  captive  fate  within  : 
And  what  if  he  were  free  to  soar 
Like  a  dreadful  giant  with  smoke  and  din  ! 

Ay  me !     What  happy  dreams  we  had ! 

And  still  they  linger  fondly  here  ; 
The  air  seems  nimble  with  the  glad 

Quaint  fancies  of  our  childhood  dear ; 


24  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD' 

And  here,  at  least,  they  do  appear 
Half  real  still  ;  it  seems  profane 
To  reason  them  down  as  fcmcies  vain, 

Where  all  that  meets  the  eye  and  ear 
Brings  the  faith  and  glory  of  youth  back  again. 

Then  by  and  by  great  thoughts  were  ours 

Of  triumijh  and  high  enterprise, 
As  knowledge  broadened  with  our  powers. 

And  Science  oped  our  wondering  eyes 

To  Nature's  fruitful  mysteries. 
No  life  of  vulgar  wealth  w^e  sought, 
Nor  pleasure  from  indulgence  got ; 

We  would  be  brave  and  true  and  wise. 
And  hoard  all  treasures  of  noble  thought. 

The  heroes  of  historic  age 

Beckoned  us  on  to  glorious  deeds 

And  hardy  training,  and  to  wage 
Victorious  war  on  foemen  weeds  : 


lOQUITUR    THOROLD.  25 

And  now  we  breathed  on  oaten  reeds 
Or  conned,  apart,  a  secret  song, 
Ashamed  as  if  the  deed  were  wrong ; 

And  now  we  rubbed  your  amber  beads 
For  trial  of  their  attraction  strong. 

We  gathered  wild-flowers  in  the  woods, 
We  wandered  miles  for  heath  and  fern. 

We  found  in  brakes  the  callow  broods 
Of  singing  birds  ;  we  sought  the  earn 
On  its  lone  cliff;  and  strove  to  learn 

All  Nature's  kindly  providence 

For  all  its  creatures,  and  the  sense 
Of  all  its  changes  to  discern, 
With  all  the  infinite  why  and  whence. 

We  turned  the  glass  to  moon  and  stars, 
The  Pleiads,  and  the  Milky  Way, 

To  Saturn's  ring,  and  fiery  Mars, 
And  Venus  haunting  close  of  day : 


26  LOQUITUR    T//OKOLD. 

We  bent  the  glass  to  watch  the  play 
Of  spasm-like  life  in  water-drops  ; 
And  where  the  red  stone  upward  crops 

We  hammered,  eager  for  a  prey 
Of  moss  or  fern  from  the  old-world  copse. 

And  O  those  days  beside  the  sea! 

The  skerries  paved  with  knotted  shells, 
The  bright  pools  of  anemone, 

The  star-fish  with  its  fretted  cells. 

The  scudding  of  the  light-foam-bells 
Along  the  stretch  of  rippled  strand 
Spotted  with  worms  of  twisted  sand. 

The  white  gulls,  and  the  shining  sails, 
And  the  thoughts  they  all  brought  from  the  Wonder-land ! 

And  fondly  watched  our  mother  dear 
The  dawning  promise  of  our  youth. 

Lilting  a  ballad  low  and  clear, 

And  fosterins:  fearless  love  of  truth 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  27 

And  meekness,   piety  and  ruth, 
And  charity  and  womanhood  ; 
For  so  she  said,  that  to  be  good 
Was  to  be  rich  in  very  sooth  ; 
And  the  good  Lord  gave  his  children  food. 

And  still  unfailing  laughter  pealed 

At  homely  jests  that  ne'er  grew  old  ; 
And  still  we  breathless  heard,  and  thrilled 

When  the  old  winter's  tale  was  told  ; 

And  still,  as  thought  grew  keen  and  bold, 
Her  loving  instinct  steadied  all 
The  march  of  mind  with  faithful  call 

To  patient  duty  manifold, 
And  to  wait  and  work  when  the  light  was  small. 

O  happy  childhood !  wakening  first 
In  moony  realms  of  fond  romance  ; 

And  quenching  soon  a  deeper  thirst 
In  science  that  refrained  to  glance 


28  LOQUITUR    TJIOKOLD. 

Scorn  at  old  fiiiths  :  so  we  could  once 
Believe  we  heard  the  mermaid  sing, 
And  that  the  deft  Fays  shaped  the  ring 
Footing  o'  moonlights  in  the  dance, 
And  that  Spirits  lay  hidden  in  everything. 

Nor  need  that  early  faith  be  all 
In  clear  defined  knowledge  lost : 

Though  never  Greek  to  Ilium's  wall 
In  the  swift  ships  the  sea  had  crossed, 
Each  wrathful  king  with  banded  host,' 

The  tale  of  Troy  were  true  to  me, 

More  than  bare  fact  of  history  : 

There  is  more  truth  than  is  engrossed 
In  your  musty  sheepskin  guaranty. 

And  there  is  truth  transcending  far 
The  way  of  scientific  thought, 

Which  travels  to  the  farthest  star. 
And  verges  on  the  smallest  mote, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

But  all  beyond  it  knoweth  not ; 
Its  ladder,  based  on  earth,  must  lean 
Its  summit  on  the  felt  and  seen  ; 

But  ever  our  hearts  their  rest  have  sought 
In  that  dim  Beyond,  where  it  hath  not  been. 

'T  is  wisdom,  doubtless,  for  the  man 
To  learn  the  fact  and  steadfast  Law ; 

Yet  Wisdom  also  in  its  plan 

Embraced  the  child's  great  wondering  awe 
Which  found  the  Unseen  in  all  it  saw, 

Whom  now  we  seek  with  cruel  strain 

Of  longing  heart  and  wildered  brain, 
Tossing  our  barren  chaff  and  straw 
In  search  of  the  old  diviner  grain. 

Can  it  be  wisdom  to  forget 

What  wisdom  taught  us  yesterday  ? 

What  if  the  form  may  change,  and  yet 
The  truth  abide  that  in  it  lay? 


29 


30  LOQUITUR    TIJOROLD. 

And  what  if  Gin  and  Ghost  and  Fay 
Were  but  the  form  of  highest  truth,  — 
The  Father's  parable  for  youth, 

To  teach  that  Law  is  Will,  to  say, 
I  am  the  worker  of  all,  in  sooth  ! 

So  might  the  dream  be,  after  all, 

The  key  which  confident  Science  lost, 

And  liath  been  groping  round  the  wall 
Of  mystery,  perplexed  and  tossed. 
In  search  of,  making  many  a  boast, 

Yet  conscious  that  her  universe 

Of  several  facts  and  laws  is  scarce 
God's  living  world ;  yea,  is  at  most 
His  graveyard,  whither  she  drove  his  hearse. 

Our  Science  knows  no  Father  yet ; 

He  seems  to  vanish  as  we  think  ; 
And  most  of  all,  when  we  are  set 

To  fish  for  Faith  upon  the  brink 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  ^i 

Of  nature  ;  we  draw,  link  by  link, 
A  line  of  close-plied  reasoning 
Elaborate,  and  hope  to  bring, 

Besides  the  baited  thought  we  sink, 
God  from  the  depths  at  the  end  of  a  string  ! 

Ah  !  who  shall  find  the  perfect  Whole 

In  the  small  fragment  that  we  see  ? 
Or  mirror  in  the  flesh-bound  soul 

The  image  of  Immensity  ? 

Our  hearts  within  us  faint,  and  we, 
Amid  the  storm  and  darkness  driven, 
Cry  out  for  God  to  earth  and  heaven: 

But  what  if  all  our  answer  be 
Only  our  cry  by  the  echoes  given  ? 

As  light  outside  the  Temple  vast 

Coming  and  going,  with  sudden  gleams 

On  altar,  pillar,  and  pavement  cast, 
Down  on  our  lower  world  He  streams 


32  LOQUITUR    rilOROLD. 

An  extern  glory.     So  it  seems ; 
But  wlio  can  tell  ?     The  things  that  press 
On  our  dream-life's  half-consciousness, 
Though  real  as  the  hills  and  streams, 
Are  the  stuft"  dreams  are  made  of  nevertheless. 

O  days  of  Faith !  when  earth  appeared 

A  Bethel  sure,  an  House  of  God, 
And  in  the  dream  his  voice  was  heard, 

And  sorrow  was  his  chastening  rod  ; 

And  stony  pillow  and  grassy  sod 
Seemed,  lying  on  the  Father's  breast ; 
And  men  had  many  an  angel  guest. 

And  ever  Avhere  the  pilgrim  trod 
God  was  near  him,  The  Highest  and  Best. 

Great  days  of  Faith  and  miracle  ! 

When  nature  might  not  be  explained, 
And  the  earth  kept  her  secret  well. 

But  there  was  worship  high,  unfeigned, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  33 

And  men  were  noble,  and  God  reigned  ; 
They  were  not  barren  though  we  laugh, 
And  swear  their  mills  ground  finest  chaff; 

For  peace  and  love  and  truth  unstained 
Are  more  than  steam  and  a  telegraph. 

How  is  it  that  our  modern  thought 

Has  travelled  from  these  sacred  ways, 
And  every  certain  truth  is  bought 

By  parting  with  some  Faith  and  Praise  ? 

We  light  our  earth  with  the  quenched  rays 
Of  heaven  ;  and  j^et  we  only  seek 
Truth  for  the  strong  and  for  the  weak, 

Loving  it  more  than  length  of  days. 
Or  the  ruby  lijD  and  the  blooming  cheek. 

Our  science,  with  its  several  facts 

And  fragmentary  laws,  hath  lost 
The  unity  that  all  compacts, 

And  makes  a  cosmos  of  the  host. 

2*  c 


34  LOQUITUR    TflOROLD. 

Force  changes,  but  its  changes  cost, 
And  in  the  elemental  war 
Conserving  transformations  are 

So  wasteful,  Time  shall  one  day  boast 
But  a  burnt-out  sun  and  a  cinder  star. 

Well,  well  ;  our  mother  knew  no  laws, 
Except  the*  Ten  Commandments  clear, 

Nor  talked  of  First  or  Final  Cause, 
But  walked  with  God  in  love  and  fear. 
And  always  felt  that  he  was  near 

By  instinct  of  a  spirit  true  ; 

And  she  had  peace  and   strength  in  lieu 
Of  that  unrest  and  trouble  here 
Which  break  like  the  billows  on  me  and  you. 

Enough;  we  have  not  yet  redeemed 
The  promise  of  our  early  days  ; 

We  are  not  all  that  we  have  dreamed. 

Nor  all  that  she  would  crown  with  praise  ; 


LOQUITUR    TliOKOLD.  ^^ 

But  we  have  loving  been  always, 
And  earned  some  little  fame,  and  hope 
For  more  where  there  is  ampler  scope ; 

And  you  will  crown  me  with  my  bays, 
Sweet  sister  mine,  when  I  reach  the  top. 

Nay,  say  not  that  I  shall  forget, 
And  find  a  dearer  love  than  thee  ; 

A  sweeter  love  was  never  yet 
Than  this  sufficing  joy  in  me  : 
Thou  art  my  fulness.     I  shall  be 

But  half  a  heart  and  head  and  will 

Except  thou  be  beside  me  still. 

For  in  our  being's  mystery 

Ever  the  better  part  thou  didst  fill. 

Not  jealous,  say  you?  but  afraid 

About  my  principles   and  views  ? 
Why,  it  was  you  that  first  betrayed. 

You  little  sceptic,  dangerous,  loose. 


36  LOQUITUR    rilOROLD. 

And  unsound  doctrine     I  but  use 
The  wicked  weapons  that  you  made  : 
Even  as  a  child  you  never  prayed 

With  half  my  faith  in  those  old  Jews, 
And  we  ne'er  got  the  Catechism  into  your  head. 

But  my  Faith  is  not  gone,  although 
At  times  it  seems  to  fade  away. 

I  would  I  were  as  long  ago ; 

I  cling  to  God,  and  strive  to  say 
The  Devil  and  all  his  angels  Nay : 

But  in  the  crucible  of  thought 

Old  forms  dissolve,  nor  have  I  got. 
Or  seem  to  wish,  new  moulds  of  clay 
To  limit  the  boundless  truth  I  sought. 

Can  the  great  God  be  aught  but  vague, 

Bounded  by  no  horizon,  save 
What  feeble  minds  create  to  plague 

Hinh  Reason  with  ?     We  madlv  crave 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  37 

For  definite  truth,  and  make  a  grave, 
Through  too  much  certainty  precise. 
And  logical  distinction  nice, 

For  all  the  little  Faith  we  have. 
Buying  clear  views  at  a  terrible  price. 

Too  dear,  indeed,  to  part  with  Faith 

For  forms  of  logic  about  God, 
And  walk  in  lucid  realms  of  death, 

Whose  paths  incredible  are  trod 

By  no  mind  living.     Faith's  abode 
Is  mystery  forevermore, 
Its  life  to  worship  and  adore. 

And  meekly  bow  beneath  the  rod. 
When  the  day  is  dark,  and  the  burden  sore. 

What  soft,  low  notes  float  everywhere 

In  the  soft  glories  of  the  moon  ! 
Soft  winds  are  whispering  in  the  air, 

And  murmurina;  waters  softlv  croon 


38  LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

To  mossy  banks  a  muffled  tune ; 
Softly  a  rustling  fiiint  is  borne 
Over  the  fields  of  waving  corn,  — 

God's  still  small  voice,  we  drown  at  noon, 
^^'hich  is  everywhere  heard  in  the  even  and  morn. 

Hush !  let  us  go.     The  stars  shine  out. 

Yonder  the  moonlight  on  the  sea,  — 
The  fishers  spread  their  sails  about 

Its  tangled  rings  ;  from  yon  lime-tree 

The  hum  of  some  belated  bee 
Sways  as  if  lost ;  I  seem  to  hear 
A  boding  murmur  in  my  ear 

Of  coming  storm.     What  if  it  be 
Omen  of  tempest  in  my  career? 

Strange  !  that  whene'er  the  hour  arrives, 
^Vhich  we  have  longed  for  day  and  night, 

To  act  the  puri)ose  of  our  lives. 
Fades  all  the  glory  and  the  light, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  3^ 

Fails  too  the  sense  of  power  and  might ; 
And  there  are  omens  in  the  air, 
And  voices  whispering  Beware !  — 

But  never  victor  in  the  fight 
Heeded  the  portents  of  fear  and  care. 


1001 


ijr0Htr. 


(i^ilitorial. 

She  sat  alone  at  evening  by  the  fire 

In  a  dim  parlor  panelled  with  brown  pine, 

Some  sewing  in  her  lap, — yet  she  sewed  not, 

A  book  in  hand,  —  and  yet  she  did  not  read, , 

My  Hester,  as  she  sits  beside  me  now, 

His  sister,  twin  in  birth,  in  culture  twin, 

And  with  a  marked  unlikeness,  strangely  like. 

For  he  was  tall,  and  a  black  shock  of  hair, 
Of  stiff,  rough  hair,  rose  o'er  a  forehead  broad 
And  noticeable,  though  you  noticed  only 
The  large  gray  eyes  beneath,  —  not  cruel-gray. 
But  swimming,  dreamy  eyes  that  seemed  to  gaze 
Into  a  world  of  wonders  far  away. 


44 


EDITORIAL. 


And  she  was  fair,  a  golden  blue-eyed  maid, 

A  slight,  small  girl,  with  the  Norse  aspect  frank, 

And  sunny  and  intelligent,  and  firm 

Of  purpose  ;  for  she  never  dreamt,  or  dreamt 

Knowingly,  swinging  on  an  anchor  held 

Fast  to  a  bottom  of  clearest  consciousness  : 

A  lady  practical,  imperative, 

With  mind  compact  and  clear  and  self-possessed, 

And  reason  peremptory  and  competent ; 

Ne'er  blinded  by  the  glamour  of  loving  thought, 

And  yet  not  less  enamored  with  her  thought, 

But  loyal,  true,  and  womanly.     Wherein 

The  unlike  likeness  lay  you  could  not  tell ; 

But  as  you  travailed  with  them  day  by  day. 

And  grew  familiar  with  their  looks  and  ways. 

And  knew  the  tenor  of  their  thoughts,  you  felt 

The  twain  were  twin  alike  in  mind  and  body. 

Deft  is  she  to  detect,  and  to  dissect 

Folly  and  foible  and  weakness,  and  with  keen 

Shaft  of  light  humor,  or  bolt  of  piercing  wit 


EDITORIAL. 

Can  reach  the  joints  and  marrow ;  yet  she  says 
That  if  her  hero  is  but  brave  and  true, 
She  knows  herseH"  to  be  so  httle  and  poor, 
And  knows  the  world,  beside,  so  mean  and  false, 
And  knows  how  hard  the  battle  to  be  true. 
That  she  bates  not  her  faith  or  love  or  worship 
For  seams  and  flaws  that  only  show  him  human, 
And  linked  by  weakness  closer  to  our  love. 

And  in  those  years  her  brother  she  adored. 
And  he  was  worthy  ;  and  she  loves  me  now ; 
With  all  my  sins  and  mine  infirmities 
At  large  writ  in  her  book,  she  loves  me  still, 
My  Hester  who  is  sitting  by  my  side. 
And  in  whose  features,  scanning  one  by  one, 
I  trace,  amid  unlikeness,  likeness  strange 
To  him  who  halved  a  common  life  with  her. 

Of  an  old  stock,  lairds  of  the  barren  moorland 
While  mitred  abbots  lorded  there  supreme. 


45 


46  EDITORIAL. 

But  Vikings  from  Norwegian  fiords  long 

Before  the  cross  or  mitre  or  the  hght 

Of  Cliristian  Faith  left  but  the  names  of  Thor 

And  Thing  and  Balder  clinging  to  the  shores  \ 

In  later  times  they  gathered  from  the  sea 

Wealth  that  the  land  denied,  and  swept  the  coast 

With  net  and  yawl,  and  had  their  iron-bound  fleets 

Spearing  the  Arctic  whale,  whose  jawbones  arched 

A  lofty  gateway  to  their  busy  wharf; 

Or  hunting  seal,  and  walrus  fierce  in  battle, 

But  faithful  and  piteous  to  its  uncouth  young : 

And  thereof  many  a  stirring  tale  was  told 

Of  perilous  combat,  touched  with  pathos  rude, 

By  weather-beaten  mariners  at  home 

In  the  long  nights  beside  the  winter  fire. 

So  they  grew  rich,  and  had  enriched  the  land  ; 

But  the  last  Burgher  laird  died  young,  and  left 

Many  large  ventures  on  the  perilous  sea 

And  in  more  perilous  mines.     His  gentle  widow, 

Harassed  by  alien  cares,  retired  at  length 


EDITORIAL.  47 


With  her  twin  children  from  the  wildering  task, 
Cheerfully  leaving  three  parts  of  her  wealth 
Somewhere  —  she  knew  not  where  —  in  falling  scrip, 
And  flooded  mines,  and  meshes  of  the  law. 

But  from  that  hour,  a  happy  mother,  she 
Lived  for  her  children,  trained  them  faithfully 
With  generous  culture  to  all  nobleness, 
Giving  them  for  inheritance  the  wealth 
Of  the  old  wisdom  and  the  new  research  : 
And  then  she  also  died.     Thorold  and  Hester 
Were  last  of  all  the  Asgards  of  Olrig. 
And  so  she  sat  that  evening  by  the  fire, 
In  the  dim  parlor  panelled  with  brown  pine, 
And  nothing  seemed  to  do,  and  nothing  see, 
But  all  the  more  she  was  alert  to  hear. 
As  if  she  listened  eager  for  the  coming 
Of  one  who  yet  came  not ;  she  only  heard 
The  far-off  moaning  of  the  restless  sea, 
The  nearer  rippling  of  the  lightsome  brook, 


48 


EDITORIAL. 


The  rising  breeze  that  tossed  the  brown  Scotch  pines, 
The  rooks  that  cawed,  high-cradled  by  the  breeze. 
The  creak  and  slamming  of  a  wicket-gate, 
The  barking  of  a  dog  in  upland  farm, 
The  untimely  crowing  of  a  wakeful  cock, 
And  all  the  inexplicable  sounds  that  haunt 
Turret  and  stair,  and  lobbies  in  old  houses 
When  the  wind  stirs  o'  nights.     And  then  she  felt 
The  creeping  of  an  eerie  loneliness. 


I^oquitur   ^ciStcr. 

00  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  left 
Alone,  and  very  lone  it  is, 

To  keep  the  dear  old  home  bereft 
Of  all  that  made  it  home  and  bliss, 
Of  all  on  earth  that  I  should  miss. 

1  almost  fear  my  heart  will  break  ; 
And  yet  it  must  not,  for  his  sake  ; 

But  it  is  hard  to  suffer  this. 
For  there 's  nothing  I  look  on  but  makes  my  heart  ach; 

It  is  like  living  with  the  dead, 

These  pictures,  and  the  old  arm-chair, 

And  all  I  meet  when   I  turn  my  head 
In  every  room,  on  every  stair  ; 

3  D 


50  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

Their  eyes  gaze  on  me  everywhere, 
And  all  so  silent ;  yet  I  seem 
At  times  to  hear,  as  in  a  dream, 

Dear  voices  calling  here  and  there. 
And  mocking  my  heart  as  I  stitch  and  seam. 

I  must  not  turn  a  silly  maid, 

A  feather-pated  girl,  the  prey 
Of  weak  nerves  and  an  empty  head. 

That  sighs  through  all  the  vacant  day, 

And  trembles,  in  the  evening  gray, 
Over  a  dull  dog-eared  romance. 
To  see  the  stealthy  moonbeams  glance. 

Or  hear  the  wind  in  crannies  play, 
Or  the  mice  in  the  wainscot  squeak  and  dance. 

Why  might  I  not  have  gone  with  him  ? 

We  ne'er  were  parted  heretofore  ; 
I  am  as  strong  of  heart  and  limb  : 

At  worst,    I  could  not  suffer  more 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  ^I 

Than  fretting"  here.     O,  it  was  sore 
To  stand  upon  the  windy  pier, 
And  try  to  wave  my  hand,  and  cheer, 
With  something  in  my  heart's  wild  core 
That  surged  with  rebellion  and  trouble  and  fear! 

I  deem  it  barbarous,  this  way 
Of  making  woman  a  helpful  wife 

By  keeping  us  poor  girls  away 
From  all  the  enterprise  of  life, 
Its  hardship,  and  its  generous  strife. 

All  men  are  Turks  at  heart,  and  hold 

That  sugar-plums,  and  rings  of  gold, 
And  pretty  silks,  and  jewels  rife, 
Are  all  that  we  need  till  we're  fat  and  old. 

And  yet  they  want  us,  ne'ertheless, 

To  think  their  thoughts,  and  sympathize 

With  all  the  struggle  and  distress 

Of  souls  that  would  be  true  and  wise, 


52  LOQUITUR  J  I  ESTER. 

To  laud  them  when  they  win  the  prize, 
To  cheer  them  if  they  strive  and  fail, 
And  gird  anew  their  glorious  mail, 

And  then  sink  back  to  housewiferies, 
To  shirts  and  flannels,  and  beef  and  ale. 

What  if  I  were  to  follow  him 

To  that  great  London?     I  have  tried 

To  think  and  write,  and  I  might  swim, 
With  other  minnows,  by  the  side 
Of  the  great  fish  that  keep  the  tide. 

A  tale,  a  woman's  touch  of  art, 

And  insight  into  woman's  heart, 

Not  deeply  thought,  but  keenly  spied, 
That  were  not,  surely,  too  lofty  a  part. 

But  it  would  vex  him  ;  and  his  love 
Is  more  to  me  tlian  all   the  world  : 

There  's  nothing  he  dislikes  above 
A  short-haired  woman,  frizzly,  curled, 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  53 

Her  flag  for  woman's  rights  unfurled, 
Her  middle  finger  black  with  ink, 
Her  staring  eyes  that  will  not  wink, 

Like  spectacles,  —  a  double-barrelled 
Terror,  he  says,  to  men  that  think. 

So  that  would  never  do  :  beside. 

There  's  plenty  other  reasons.     He 
Would  keep  the  old  household  by  my  side, 

And  all  things  as  they  used  to  be  ; 

The  plants,  and  stones,  and  library. 
The  fossils  rare,  and  etchings  nice, 
And   other  things  beyond  all  price  : 

And  there  's  another  might  long  for  me. 
And  his  evening  chess-board,  once  or  twice. 

I  'm  cold,  and  yet  the  night  is  warm  \ 
And  restless,  yet  the  hour  is  still ; 

And  haunted  by  a  vague  alarm. 
Yet  all   is  hopeful,  and  he  will 


54  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

Surely  a  glorious  fate  fulfil. 
I  dare  not  doubt  it.     He  is  true 
To  the  high  aim  he  has  in  view, 

Intolerant  of  hoary  ill, 
But  open  to  all  that  is  good  and  new. 

The  doubts  of  venturous  thought  have  cast 
Uncertain  shadows  o'er  his  mind  ; 

His  soaring  spirit  has  not  jDassed 
Above  the  realm  of  clouds,  to  find 
The  light  serene  that  lies  behind  : 

But  he  is  pure  and  undefiled, 

Unworldly  as  a  little  child, 

And  still,  amid  the  darkness  blind, 
Clings  to  the  Lowly  One,  meek  and  mild. 

He  has  a  scholar's  culture,  hence 
A  Greek-like  taste,  calm,  purified  ; 

He  has  the  poet's  delicate  sense 
Of  bcautv,  ever  with  good  allied  ; 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  55 

A  nature  large  and  free  and  wide 
And  plastic  and  impressible,  — 
Too  much  perhaps  :  a  stronger  will, 

A  little  more  of  self  and  pride, 
And  he  would  be  safer  from  earthly  ill. 

And  then  he  has  more  sympathy. 

Perchance,  with  truth  and  beauty  than 

The  power  creative  :  he  would  be 
A  stronger,  if  a  narrower  man. 
Less  balanced  ;  for  his  equal  plan, 

Diffused  on  all  sides  from  his  youth. 

Unto  all  wisdom,  grace,  and  truth. 
Into  most  just  proportions  ran. 
With  risk  of  being  only  graceful  and  smooth. 

A  perfect  critic  of  all  good, 

But  longing  ever  to  be  more  :     ■ 
Well  understanding  every  mood 

Of  genius,  finding  every  door 


56  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

Of  knowledge  open,  and  the  lore 
Of  ages  to  his  insight  free, 
For  he  has  still  the  master-key  ; 

Yet  would  he  launch  out  from  the  shore, 
And  plough  for  himself  an  untravelled  sea. 

And  there  is  risk  that  such  a  mind 
Shall  be  too  nice  and  delicate, 

And  in  its  equipoise  may  find 
A  very  impotence,  and  wait. 
Nor  ever  dare  a  glorious  fate, 

The  sense  of  fine  perfection  still 

Embarrassing  the  purposed  will, 
Until  the  shadows  gather  late, 
And  the  mist  is  folded  about  the  hill. 

Yet  if  he  were  not  what  he  is, 

I  could  not  love  him  then  as  now  : 

It  were  another  mind  than  his, 
Other,  not  better  than,  I  trow : 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  57 

He  hath  such  courage  to  avow 
His  foiths,  such  knowledge  to  impart, 
Such  boundless  sympathy  with  Art, 

Such  fancies,  like  the  blossomed  bough 
That  clasps  the  fruit  in  its  fragrant  heart. 

Then  he  is  brave  and  beautiful 

In  manhood,  radiant  with  the  might 

Of  that  rich  life  and  grace  which  rule 
The  admiration  and  delight 
Of  Fashion,  —  witty,  airy,  bright: 

I  dread  for  him  a  woman's  wiles. 

And  cunning  arts,  and  winsome  smiles. 
And  trifling  with  the  heart  and  right, 
Tangling  his  love  in  her  loveless  toils. 

I  would  not  have  him  not  to  love 

Another,  dearer  life  than  mine  : 
Let  but  a  maiden  worthy  prove. 

And  with  his  love  my  love  shall  twine 
3* 


58  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

To  clothe  her  with  a  joy  divine. 
But  he  esteems  all   women  pure, 
Can  spy  no  craft  in  looks  demure, 

Holds  them  all  angels  good  that  pine 
For  heaven  in  a  world  they  strive  to  cure. 

And  so  I  fear  for  him  ;  T  dread 

That  he  may  set  his  love  on  one 
With  little  either  of  heart  or  head 

Save  what  he  dowers  her  with,  and  run 

After  a  shadow  in  the  sun, 
Only  to  learn  his  weary  fate 
When  the  great  heart  is  desolate, 

And  the  fire  burns,  and  there  is  none 
Cometh  to  cheer  him  early  or  late. 

And  once  I  feared  that  he  had  placed 
His  all  on  such  a  chance.     And  she  — 

The  grand,  fine  lady,  scarcely  graced 
With  outsides  of  hypocrisy — • 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  ^g 

True  to  the  flesh  she  seemed  to  be  : 
And  yet  he  made  a  god  of  her, 
And  'girt  her  with  an  atmosphere 
Of  incense,  light,  and  poesie,  — 
But  the  glory  was  all  in  the  worshipper. 

'T  is  strange,  the  finest  insight  still 
Seems  blindest  to  a  woman's  art. 

The  base  get  love  unto  their  fill ; 
The  noble  thirst  for  that  true  heart 
Whereto  they  may  their  life  impart. 

And  find  in  it  their  solace  meet  : 

But  clothing  with  their  fancies  sweet 
A  wanton  or  a  fool,  they  start 
To  know  in  their  love  but  their  sorrow  complete. 

Out  of  the  world  he  lives  afar 

In  chivalrous  ideal  trust. 
Enshrining  woman  like  a  star 

For  worship  of  the  good  and  just, 


6o  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

Where  no  unworlliy  thought  or  lust 
May  enter  with  unhalhjwed  tread  ; 
And  though  he  has  a  sister  made, 
Like  other  girls,  of  sorry  dust, 
He  never  would  see  that  our  gold  was  but  lead. 

O  if  men  knew  us  only,  —  knew 

The  cowardice  and  commonplace, 
The  petty  circle  of  our  view. 

The  meanness  and  the  littleness 

That  lie  behind  a  pretty  ftice  ! 
Thank  heaven,  I  was  not  bred  with  girls, 
A  thing  of  ribbons,  scents,  and  curls, 

And  quaint  in  fancies  of  a  dress, 
And  gold  and  jewels  and  strings  of  pearls. 

Our  mother  trained  me  up  with  him 
To  love  the  right,  the  truth  to  speak, 

The  scholar's  thoughtful  lamp  to  trim, 

And  trace  the  rhythm  of  numbered  Greek, 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  6 1 

And  in  the  world  of  God  to  seek 
Wisdom  in  knowledge  of  his  ways, 
And  gladness  in  the  song  of  praise 
Which  rises  from  the  strong  and  weak 
To  the  Father  that  keepeth  us  all  our  days. 

And  this,  at  least,  I've  learnt,  that  man 

Can  be  more  godlike  far  than  we, 
And  never  is  more  glorious  than 

When  bending  low  a  suppliant  knee 

In  his  pure-hearted  chivalry. 
Entranced  with   his  own  spell  of  might, 
Blind  with  his  own  exuberant  light. 

Lost  in  love's  rapture  and  ecstasy, 
Which  girls  only  trifle  with,  day  and  night. 

Therefore  I  fear  his  life  may  be 

A  disenchantment  day  by  clay, 
A  glory  that  he  seems  to  see. 

Only  to  see  it  fade  away  • 


62  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

And  then  perchance  he  may  not  play 
The  great  part  that  he  wouUi   in  life, 
But  waste  hhn  in  a  petty  strife 
With  little  cares,  and  be  the  prey 
Of  fretful  thoughts,  and  a  foolish  wife. 

Then  will  he  die,  and  leave  no  trace 

Of  all  the  great  work  he  has  schemed  ; 
And  men  will  say  for  such  a  race 

He  has  not  trained,  but  only  dreamed  ; 

7\.nd  that  pure  liglit  of  heaven  which  streamed 
Along  his  morning  pilgrimage. 
Broadening  and  brightening  every  stage, 

No  forecast  true  shall  be  esteemed 
Of  the  battle  which  genius  has  to  wage. 

Hence,  idle  fear !     He  's  brave  and  true. 
With  patient  toil   as  well  as  fire  ; 

What  fruitful  effort  can,  he  '11  do 

To  crown  with  triumph  high  desire. 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  63 

And  make  the  wondering  world  admire, 
And  win  himself  a  lofty  name. 
Yet  what  were  all  the  pride  of  Fame 
If  he  were  linked  in  bondage  dire 
To  a  heartless  flirt,  or  a  haughty  dame ! 

The  Herr  Professor  says  I  'm  not 

Just  to  the  croqueting,  crocheting  kind 

Of  girls  ;  for  they  fulfil  their  lot 

Like  flowers  which  w-ant  no  subtle  mind, 
But  waft  their  sweetness  on  the  wind, 

And  flash  their  beauty  on  the  eye. 

And  bloom,  and  ripen,  and  then  die  ; 
And  they  are  lovely,  and  we  are  blind 
If  we  think  that  the  world  is  not  better  thereby. 

Maybe  I  am  not  just  to  them  ; 

Maybe  I  ask  more  mind  and  heart ; 
Maybe  a  woman,   like  a  gem. 

Is  but  a  bawble  of  precious  art, 


64  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

And  as  a  toy  should  play  her  part. 
God  meant  her  for  an  helpmeet  true, 
But  men  have  (^uite  another  view : 

Let  her  bright  eyes  like  diamonds  dart, 
And  she  may  be  hard  as  the  diamond  too. 

Yet  one  may  harden,  he  avers, 

By  thought  as  well  as  thoughtlessness ; 
And  women's  minds  may  equal  theirs, 

Have  wit  as  keen,  nor  reason  less ; 

Only  they  will  not  bear  the  stress 
Of  manly  toil,  and  keep  the  good 
Pure  quality  of  womanhood  : 

And  logic  is  not  more  than  dress 
For  the  sweetening  of  life  in  its  weary  mood. 

The  Herr  Professor  speaks  indeed 
Many  odd  quips  and  crusty  jokes. 

He  vows  that  I  have  too  much  creed 
To  have  much  faith,  and  daily  shocks 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  65 

My  thought  with  some  mad  paradox ; 
And  in   the  ancient  truth  he  sees 
But  an  old  bunch  of  rusty  keys 

Hung  at  the  belt  of  the  Orthodox, 
To  open  a  dungeon  which  they  call  Peace. 

And  yet  I  know  he  loveth  much, 

And  walks  with  God  in  truth  and  right ; 
And  if  the  world  had  many  such, 

It  were  indeed  a  world  of  light, 

All  radiant  with  a  glory  bright: 
And  sometimes,  in  his  quaintest  words, 
He  seems  to  touch  the  deepest  chords. 

And  with  a  master's  skill  and  might 
Holds  high  discourse  of  the  Lord  of  lords. 

But,  psha !  what  matters  what  he  thinks  ? 

And  yet  why  do  my  thoughts  still  veer, 
As  drawn  to  him  by  subtle  links 

Of  yearning  hope,  and  trembling  fear 

E 


66  LOQUITUR  J  J  ESTER. 

How  in  his  sight  I  shall  appear? 
And  wherefore  do  I  watch  for  him 
In  the  elm-tree  walk  at  evening  dim, 
As  he  comes  singing  loud  and  clear 
A  Burschen  song  or  a  Luther  hymn  ? 

Can  this  be  love  ?  and  could  I  charge 

Thorold  that  he  would  by  and  by 
Love  with  a  love  more  deep  and  large 

Than  sister's  love  could  satisfy  ? 

And  all  the  while,  alas  !  was  I 
But  taxing  him  to  liidc  my  own 
Lapse  into  passionate  depths  unknown  ? 

Nay,  but  this  foolish  thought  would  die 
If  I  were  not  left  Here  brooding  alone. 

And  yet  I  know  not.     Heretofore 

I  used  to  bring  my  thoughts  to  book, 

And  opened  every  chamber  door. 

And  searched  my  soul  through  every  nook  ; 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  67 

But  into  this  I  shrank  to  look  : 
It  came  with  silent,  owly  flight 
In  the  still  quiet  of  the  night ; 

I  heard  the  wind,  I  heard  the  brook, 
But  the  love  slid  into  my  soul  like  light. 

And  when  I  found  it  nestling  there, 

Like  swallow  twittering  in  the  eaves. 
It  felt  like  summer  warm  and  fair, 

And  blossomy  spray,  and  fragrant  leaves. 

A  cosey  nest  my  bright  bird  weaves, — 
My  bird  which  is  but  a  German  swallow, 
Guttural-speaking,  big  and  sallow  : 

Only  his  heart  with  great  thought  heaves. 
And  there's  naught  in  him  little  or  poor  or  shallow. 

Am  I  ashamed  to  say  I  love. 

Yet  proud  of  him  I  love  so  well? 
O  strange  proud  shame !  yet  hand  and  glove 

Could  fit  no  better,  truth  to  tell. 


68  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

I  used  to  laugh  at  girls  who  fell 
Blusliing  and  lying  time  about, 
And  sware  1  would  love  out  and  out, 
Or  not  at  all ;  yet  now  the  spell 
Holds  me  in  transport  and  terror  and  doubt. 

What  can  it  mean,  this  love  and  fear. 

This  open  shame  and  secret  i)ride. 
The  yearning  gladness,  and  the  tear 

That  comes  so  often  by  its  side  ; 

This  thought  we  fondle  while  we  hide, 
This  trembling  dread  when  he  is  late. 
And  pouting  joy  that  makes  him  wait. 

And  passion  passionately  denied, 
And  the  feeling  of  overmastering  Fate  ? 

I  will  to  Thorold's  room.     Nay,  that 
I  may  not.     Last  niglit  I  went  there, 

And  the  pale  moon  in  silence  sat 
So  ghostly  on  the  great  arm-chair, 


LOQUITUR   HESTER.  69 

And  the  mice  pattered  here  and  there, 
And  the  wind  in  the  chimney  moaned, 
And  the  old  pine  at  the  window  groaned, 

And  something  stepped  the  creaking  stair. 
I  dare  not  sit  in  the  room   he  owned. 

Come  back,  come  back,  my  brother  dear : 
The  storm  is  gathering  on  thy  way. 

And  mine  is  no  more  calm  and  clear ; 
The  mist  is  creeping  dull   and  gray 
O'er  surfy  beach  and  troubled  bay, 

And  I  am  friendless  and  alone. 

And  doubtful  of  myself,  with  none 
To  counsel  me  ;   and  day  by  day 
Fear  is  chilling  my  heart  like  stone. 

Am  I  grown  fanciful,  to  muse 

On  school-girl  whimseys  foolishly? 

What  should  I  fear,  except  to  lose 
The  great  true  heart  that  loveth  me 


70  LOQUITUR  HESTER. 

Better  than  I  deserve  to  be, 
With  tender  strength  and  manly  care, 
And  modest  hope  his  lot  to  share, 

And  share  his  thoughts,  too,  high  and  free, 
And  bear  all  the  burden  which  he  must  bear? 

To  mine  own  soul  let  me  be  true ; 

I  love  my  love  by  night  and  day, 
I  love  my  love,  —  the  sound  is  new, 

But  O,  how  sweet  it  is  to  say ! 

I  love  my  love,  —  it  is  like  play. 
But  yet  I  love  with  heart  and  mind, 
And  passion  trembling,  fond  and  blind  ; 

I  love  my  love  in  Love's  old  way. 
And  ever  in  loving  new  life  I  find. 

I  cannot  rest ;  he  cometh  not ; 

And  yet,  a  little  while  ago. 
What  wildest  fancy  could  have  thought 

A  day  of  tumult  and  of  woe 


LOQUITUR  HESTER.  71 

Among  the  peoples,  stricken  low, 
Who  rose  up  in  a  wrath  divine. 
On  Seine,  the   Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Would  shoot,   in  that  volcanic  glow, 
A  flame  from  their  heart  to  kindle  mine  ? 

I  should  as  soon  have  looked  to  see 

Some  bright  star  from  the  stormy  heaven 
Glide  down  to  earth,  and  rest  on  me. 

From  all  its  glorious  comrades  riven. 

So  strangely  fates  are  interwoven  ! 
And  how  he  loves  his  Deutsch-land  dear. 
Its  patient  thought,  that  knows  no  fear. 

Its  Luther,  Goethe,   Heine,  given 
For  lights  to  the  ages  far  and  near. 

I  will  go  forth.     The  moonlight  dim 
Dusks  with  broad  shade  the  silent  hill ; 

I  will  go  up,  and  think  of  him, 

Where  the  old  brook  is  tinkling  still. 


72  LOQUITUR  JJESTER. 

With  memories  of  our  water-mill;  — 
I  think  he  sometimes  strolls  that  way, 
With  pipe  and  book  at  evening  gray ; 
Lut  memories  of  childhood  will 
Pleasantly  wind  up  a  weary  day. 


!00k   Cljirtr. 


Lady  Anne  Dewhurst  on  a  crimson  couch 
Lay,  with  a  rug  of  sable  o'er  her  Icnees, 
In  a  bright  boudoir  in  Belgravia; 
Most  perfectly  arrayed  in  shapely  robe 
Of  sumptuous  satin,  lit  up  here  and  there 
With  scarlet  touches,  and  with  costly  lace 
Nice-fingered  maidens  knotted  in  Brabant : 
And  all  around  her  spread  magnificence 
Of  bronzes,  Sevres  vases,  marquetrie. 
Rare  buhl,  and  bric-a-brac  of  every  kind. 
From  Rome  and  Paris  and  the  centuries 
Of  far-off  beauty.     All  of  goodly  color, 
Or  graceful  form  that  could  delight  the  eye, 


76  EDITORIAL. 

In  orderly  disorder  lay  around, 

And  flowers  with  perfume  scented  the  warm  air. 

Stately  and  large  and  beautiful  she  was, 

Spite  of  her  sixty  summers,  with  an  eye 

Trained  to  soft  languors,  that  could  also  flash 

Keen  as  a  sword  and  sharp,  —  a  black  bright  eye. 

Deep  sunk  beneath  an  arch  of  jet.     She  had 

A  weary  look,  and  yet  the  w'eariness 

Seemed  not  so  native  as  the  worldliness 

Which  blended  with  it.     Weary  and  worldly,  she 

Had  quite  resigned  herself  to  misery 

In  this  sad  vale  of  tears,  but  fully  meant 

To  nurse  her  sorrow  in  a  sumptuous  fashion. 

And  make  it  an  expensive  luxury ; 

For  nothing  she  esteemed  that  nothing  cost. 

Beside  her,  on  a  table  round,  inlaid 

With  precious  stones  by  Roman  art  designed, 

Lay  i^hials,  scents,   a  novel,  and  a  Bible, 


EDITORIAL. 

A  pill-box  and  a  wineglass,  and  a  book 

On  the  Apocalypse  ;  for  she  was  much 

Addicted  unto  physic  and  religion, 

And  her  physician  had  prescribed  for  her 

Jellies  and  wines  and  cheerful  literature. 

The  book  on  the  Apocalypse  was  writ 

By  her  chosen  pastor,  and  she  took  the  novel 

With  the  dry  sherry,  and  the  pills  prescribed. 

A  gorgeous,  pious,  comfortable  life 

Of  misery  she  lived  ;   and  all  the  sins 

Of  all  her  house,  and  all  the  nation's  sins. 

And  all  shortcomings  of  the  Church  and  State, 

And  all  the  sins  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Bore  as  her  special  cross,  confessing  them 

Vicariously  day  by  day,  and  then 

She  comforted  her  heart,  which  needed  it, 

With  bric-a-brac  and  jelly  and  old  wine. 

Beside  the  fire,  her  elbow  on  the  mantle. 
And  forehead  resting  on  her  finger-tips. 


77 


78  EDITORIAL. 

Shading  a  face  where  sometimes  loomed  a  frown, 

And  sometimes  flashed  a  gleam  of  bitter  scorn, 

Her  daughter  stood ;  no  more  a  graceful  girl, 

But  in  the  glory  of  her  womanhood, 

Stately  and  haughty.     One  who  might  have  been 

A  noble  woman  in  a  nobler  world. 

But  i^ow  was  only  woman  of  her  world, 

With  just  enough  of  better  thought  to  know 

It  was  not  noble,  and  despise  it  all, 

And  most  herself  for  making  it  her  all. 

A  w^oman,  complex,  intricate,  involved ; 

Wrestling  with  self,  yet  still  by  self  subdued  ; 

Scorning  herself  for  being  what  she  was, 

And  yet  unable  to  be  that  she  would  ; 

Uneasy  with  the  sense  of  possible  good 

Never  attained,  nor  sought,  except  in  fits 

Ending  in  failures ;  conscious,  too,  of  power 

Which  found  no  purpose  to  direct  its  force, 

And  so  came  back  upon  herself,  and  grew 

An  inward  fret.     The  caired  bird  sometimes  dashed 


EDITORIAL. 


79 


Against  the  wires,  and  sometimes  sat  and  pined, 
But  mainly  pecked  her  sugar,  and  eyed  her  glass, 
And  trilled  her  graver  thoughts  away  in  song. 

Mother  and  daughter,  —  yet  a  childless  mother, 
And  motherless  her  daughter;  for  the  world 
Had  gashed  a  chasm  between,  impassable. 
And  they  had  naught  in  common,  neither  love. 
Nor  hate,  nor  anything  except  a  name. 
Yet  both  were  of  the  world  ;   and  she  not  least 
Whose  world  was  the  religious  one,  and  stretched 
A  kind  of  isthmus  'tween  the  Devil  and  God, 
A  slimy,  oozy  mud,  where  mandrakes  grew. 
Ghastly,  with  intertwisted  roots,  and  things 
Amphibious  haunted,  and  the  leathern  bat 
Flickered  about  its  twilight  evermore. 


I^oqititur  piittcr   Pomina. 

O  O  there  you  are  at  last.     Please,  draw 
That  odious  curtain,  will  you  ?     Do. 
A  hideous  thing  as  e'er  I  saw ! 

It  gives  one  such  a  corpse-like  hue. 
But  I  might  be  a  corpse  for  you  : 
It's  little  any  of  you  cares 
How  your  heart-broken  mother  fares, 
Burdened  with  sorrows  old  and  new, 
As  the  world  entangles  you  all  in  its  snares. 

Please,  no  excuse :    it  does  no  good. 

Of  course,  you  have  j-our  morning  calls. 
Your  shopping,  and  your  listless  mood 

After  late  dinners,  drums,  and  balls ; 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  gl 

My  world  is  these  four  weary  walls, 
My  body,  but  an  aching  back. 
My  life,  a  torture  on  the  rack. 

My  thoughts,  like  dizzying  waterfalls 
That  never  will  silence,  or  change,  or  slack. 

I  get  my  jellies,  soups,  and  stews, 

My  little  wine,  —  what  need  I  more  ? 
My  morning  paper  with  the  news 

That  everybody  knew  before. 

I  hear  the  street  calls,  and  the  roar 
Of  the  town  traffic,  and  the  clash 
Of  milk-bells,  and  the  angry  crash 

Of  brass  bands,  and  the  drowsy  snore 
Of  an  organ  as  dull  as  the  flat  sea-wash. 

And  then  the  night  falls,  and  the  clock 
Ticks  on  the  mantel,  and  the  wheels 

Crunch  the  hard  gravel,  as  the  flock 
Of  weary  revellers  homeward  reels, 

4  *  TS 


82  LOQUITUR  MATER   DOMINA. 

Until  the  opal   morning  steals 
Up  in  the  sky.     So,  clay  by  day, 
My  life  crawls  on  its  dreary  way  ; 

No  hope  it  stirs,  no  joy  it  feels ; 
But  it's  all  like  a  foggy  November  day: 

A  gray  fog  in  the  early  jDrime, 
A  blue  fog  by  the  breakfast-hour, 

A  saffron  fog  at  luncheon-time, 
At  dinner  a  persistent  shower 
ttf?^mut,  and  then  a  dismal  power 

Of  choking  darkness  and  despair 

Thickening  and  soddening  all  the  air:- 
But  we  are  all  a  fading  flower. 
And  life  is  a  burden  of  sorrow  and  care. 

I  don't  complain  ;   it  is  the  lot 
Appointed  me  by  wisdom  best : 

'T  is  meet  that   I  should  be  forgot 
By  all  of  you,  and  learn  to  rest 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  \ 

Content,  while  ye  have  mirth  and  jest, 
And  I  religion.     Still  I  feel; 
I  hide  the  wounds  I  cannot  heal, 

I  keep  my  sorrow  unexpressed,  — 
But  I  'm  not  quite  so  hard  as  a  lump  of  steel. 

My  nerves  are  not  just  wires  and  cords, 

I  'm  not  a  mere  rhinoceros 
Where  arrows  stick  as  in  deal  boards. 

And  bullets  fall  as  soft  as  moss. 

My  patient  heart  can  bear  its  cross, 
And  bleed  unseen,  —  but  still  it  bleeds. 
And  all  the  more  that  no  one  heeds, 

And  all  the  more  to  see  your  loss 
Of  all  sound  religious  views  and  creeds. 

O,  were  I  only  dead  and  gone ! 

It 's  hard  to  live,  and  see  the  way 
That  all  of  you  are  hurrying  on 

Blindly  unto  the  dreadful  day. 


84  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOM  IN  A. 

You  prate  of  fossils,  while  I  pray, 
And  beetles  occupy  your  heart 
More  than  its  own  Immortal  part : 

Your  father's  hairs  are  turning  gray, 
In  this  impious  babble  of  science  and  art. 

Poor  fools  !  that  fain  would  break  a  spear 
With  Moses  and  the  Pentateuch, 

And  only  blinded  reason  hear, 
And  will  no  revelation  brook, 
Nor  miracle  nor  inspired  Book! 

But  for  some  sweet  refreshing  showers 

Of  doctrine,  during  Sabbath  hours, 

'T  would  break  my  heart  on  you  to  look  ; 
But  the  Book  and  Day  are  still  happily  ours. 

Ah  !  what  were  life  without  the  Book  ? 

And  what  this  world  without  its  story? 
And  what  were  man,  if  he  forsook 

The  Sabbath,   foretaste  of  heaven's  glory  ? 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  8$ 

A  den  of  wild  beasts,  dark  and  gory ! 
A  being  quite  devoid  of  grace, 
A  heatlien  with  a  tattooed  face, 

That  burns  his  widows !     I  implore  you, 
Set  your  heart,  Rose,  in  the  proper  place. 

But  you  have  no  religion,  —  none. 

It  is  the  heart  that 's  wrong,  my  dear : 
If  you  had  not  a  heart  of  stone, 

You  could  not  leave  me  lonely  here. 

And  men  may  do  who  have  not  clear 
Decided  views ;    they  go  about 
The  Clubs,  and  hear  who's  in  and  out, 

And  which  is  "  Favorite  "  this  year. 
And  bet,  and   are  dreadfully  wicked,  no  doubt. 

But  women  who  have  lost  their  Faith 
Are  angels  who  have  lost  their  wings, 

And  ahvays  have  a  nasty  breath 
Of  chemistry,  and  horrid  things 


86  LOQUITUR  MATER  DO  MI N A. 

That  go  off  when  a  lecturer  rings 
His  bell.  —  But  they  will  not  go  off; 
They  take  a  mission  or  a  cough  ; 
For  men  will  marry  a  fool  that  sings 
Sooner  than  one  that  has  learnt  to  scoff. 

You  don't  believe  me  :   you  go  in 
For  science,  culture,  common  sense, 

And  think  a  woman  sure  to  win 

Because  she  knows  tlie  why  and  whence, 
And  looks  at  vermin  through  a  lens: 

And  yet  you  've  seen  a  score  of  girls 

With  empty  heads,  and  silly  curls, 

And  laughter  light,  and  judgment  dense, 
Wedded  to  INIarquises,  Dukes,  and  Earls. 

And  why  ?     They  started  fair  with  you : 
You  dressed  as  well, —  for  that  was  mine; 

You  were  as  handsome  and  well-born,  too, 
And  you  had  wit  like  sparkling  wine  : 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  87 

But  they  all  took  to  things  divine 
Like  sober,  pious  girls.     I  know 
That  some  were  High  Church,  and  would  go, 

Like  nuns,  with  beads  and  crosses  fine, — 
But  they  all  were  wives  in  a  season  or  so. 

Men  may  be  bad,  but  still  they  like 

A  pious  wife  that  lives  for  heaven  ; 
Your  wit  may  shine,  your  beauty  strike, 

But  not  to  these  their  love  is  given. 

Ah  !  had  you  with  your  Prayer-Book  driven 
To  church,  and  kept  a  Sunday-school, 
And  visited,  and  lived  by  rule  — 

But  that  is  past  and  all  forgiven, 
Though  you  played  your  cards  like  a  perfect  fool. 

You  cannot  be  a  hypocrite, 

To  mumble  out  a  false  remorse. 
And  wear  a  look  of  prim  conceit 

Only  to  be  the  winning  horse?  — 


88  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOM  IN  A. 

Of  course  you  cannot,  and  of  course 
I  never  meant  you  should.     But  yet, 
You  might  feel  true  grief  and  regret 

For  sin ;   and  could  be  none  the  worse 
For  the  strawberry  leaves  in  a  coronet. 

You  wonder  at  me,  with  my  views 
Of  doctrine  sound,  and  worship  pure. 

That  I  should  plead  the  least  excuse 
For  girls  whom  Romish  arts  allure, 
Through  Ritualism  to  Babylon  sure. 

But  did  I  say  their  views  were  right? 

Or  did  I  call  their  darkness  light  ? 
Or  did  I  only  try  to  cure 
Your  heart,  which  is  turned  from  the  Gospel  quite? 

It's  grace  you  need.  Rose,  to  illume 
Your  darkened  nature.     What  an  age 

Since  I  have  seen  you  in  my  room  ! 
Though  I  have  nothing  to  engage 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  89 

My  thoughts,  except  the  sacred  page, 
And  that  sweet  book  which  is  so  clear 
Upon  the  Beast  and  his  numbered  year  :  — 
Yet  all  the  while  there  's  quite  a  rage 
For  some  wonderful  May-fair  novel,  I  hear. 

And  after  all  I  have  done  for  you!  — 

But  daughters  are  not  what  they  were, 
And  you  are  only  proving  true 
What  all  the  Prophets  do  aver. 
O,  had  you  heard  our  minister 
Upon  The  Signs  of  the  End,  and  how 
The  children  of  the  saints  shall  grow 
Still  wickeder  and  wickeder  !  — 
Till  all  to  the  Beast  and  the  Woman  shall  bow. 

That  is  the  worst  part  of  my  trial  : 

But  prophecy  must  be  fulfilled, 
And  we  are  in  the  Seventh  Vial, 

The  Witnesses  will  soon  be  killed, 


90  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA. 

And  all  the  land  with  blood  be  filled 
And  Papists  ;  and  a  cruel  fote 
Shall  separate  the  Church  and  State, 

And  then  more  blood  is  to  be  spilled 
By  the  Frogs,  —  that's  your  Radical  friends  of  late. 

It 's  clear  the  Woman  and  the  Beast 

Are  Buonaparte  and  the  Pope  ; 
The  Prophets  won't  explain  the  least 

Without  them  ;    they  're  the  merest  rope 

Of  sand  in  that  case  :  and  I  hope 
I  know  my  Bible.     Still  the  Book 
Is  sealed,  and  you  shall  vainly  look 

To  find  its  meaning  and  its  scope. 
If  the  Jews  don't  return,  and  the  Pentateuch. 

Ah  !  we  had  such  a  sermon  on  it !  — 
The  Vicar's  wife  she  was  not  there ; 

She  had  not  got  her  new  spring  bonnet  — 
But  all  the  world  was.     Do  you  care 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  gi 

For  the  new  mode  ?     You  blondes  mvist  wear 
Pink,  shaped  Hke  tuiy  Httle  shells  ; 
So  natural !  with  silver  bells.  — 

But  that  great  sermon !     I  declare, 
I  can't  for  the  world  think  of  anything  else. 

So  searching  and  pathetic !     He 

Soaked  two  clean  handkerchiefs  in  tears, 
While  clearing  up  the  prophecy, 

The  mystic  number,  and  the  years. 

And  Daniel ;  and  it  still  appears 
That  this  Napoleon  is  the  Beast 
That  was  and  wasn't,  you  know:  at  least 

The  Armageddon  swords  and  spears 
Were  long  ago  shipped  from  Marseilles  to  the  East. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  you  do  not  care 

Although  the  end  of  the  world  were  come. 

It's  very  wicked  to  despair; 

You  should  be  gentle,  patient,  dumb, 


92  LOQUITUR   MATER  DOMTVA. 

Thinking  that  any  day  the  hum 
Of  myriad  angels,  saintly  crowds, 
With  rainbow  trimmings  round  their  shrouds, 

May  greet  you  at  a  kettle-drum, 
Coming  in  glory  among  the  clouds. 

We  live  in  wondrous  times ;    such  times 

The  world  has  never  seen  before ; 
With  earthquakes  in  the  tropic  climes, 

And  kingdoms  shaken  to  the  core, 

And  revolutions  at  our  door  ; 
And  Kings  and  Queens  discrowned  appear 
In  London  every  other  year, 

While  Barons  clothed  in  rags  implore 
You  to  buy  pens  and  sealing-wax  dreadful  dear. 

And  Ritualists  our  Church  defile. 
And  Rationalists  our  faith  deny, 

And  Papist  nuns  and  chaplains  wile 
Our  very  thieves  in  jail.     And  I 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  93 

Went  to  a  chapel  once  hard  by, 
And  heard  a  Non-conformist  say 
The  Sabbath  was  a  mere  Jewish  day! 
I  left,  of  course,  and  had  to  fly 
In  the  rain,  but  I  hailed  a  cab  by  the  way. 

And  there 's  your  "  Robertson  of  Brighton," 

He's  lying  now  on  every  table, 
With  "  Ecce  Homo "  to  enlighten 

Our  carnal  hearts,  and  minds  unstable. 

We  have  no  anchor  now  or  cable ; 
Our  admirable  Liturgy, 
Our  very  Bible,  is  not  free 

From  criticism  lamentable ; 
And  everybody  is  all  at  sea. 

What  next?     The  land  is  rotten  quite, 

And  infidel  and  Papist  too  : 
There  's  Gladstone  ruled  by  Mr.  Bright, 

The  very  Bishops  hardly  true, 


94  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA. 

And  the  Queen  knows  not  what  to  do. 
But  prophecy  is  coming  clear, 
The  awful  end  is  drawing  near, 
And  bitterly  this  land  will  rue 
The  way  it  has  treated  the  Jews,  I  fear. 

Last  week  our  Vicar  plainly  told  — 
He's  a  converted  Jew,   I  know  — 

How  seven  fine  ladies  should  lay  hold 
Even  on  the  man  that  cries  "  Old  Clo'," 
To  save  them  in  the  day  of  woe ; 

And  proved  it  from  the  Prophets  clear. 

So  then    I  thought  I  'd  ask  you,  dear,  — 
The  poor  man  looked  so  shabby  and  low, 
If  you  knew  any  Jew  of  the  better  class  here. 

For  though  all  Israel  shall  be  saved, 
And  all  the  lost  tribes  found  again, 

And  all  be  proper  and  well  behaved. 
And  all  be  free  from  sorrow  and  pain ; 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  95 

Yet  even  in  heaven,  it  is  quite  plain, 
As  stars  with  different  glory  shine, 
There  shall  be  people  poor  and  fine. 

For  perfect  order  there  shall  reign  : 
And  one  would  not  like  to  go  over  the  line. 

You  did  not  come  to  speak  of  Jews  — 
They  're  Charlie's  friends,  and  he  can  tell ; 

Nor  yet  about  the  Vicar's  views 
Of  millennarian  heaven  or  hell:  — 
My  dear,  that 's  hardly  spoken  well. 

But  what,  then,  did  you  come  about  ? 

A  call,  a  lecture,  or  a  rout? 
A  flower,  a  beetle,  or  a  shell  ? 
Or  a  prodigy  found  in  some  country  lout? 

Eh  !     What  say  you  ?     That  puling  boy 
With  the  Scotch  brogue  and  hungry  look? 

Your  genius  whom  you  made  a  toy 
Last  winter  at  your  drums,  and  took 


g6  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMLVA. 

About  with  you  by  hook  or  crook ! 
Tush,  tush  !     I  do  not  hke  your  set : 
But  what's  come  of  the  baronet? 
As  for  the  writer  of  a  book, 
You  're  not  come  quite  to  the  curates  yet. 

O  yes,  you  love  him;  that's  of  course  : 
It 's  your  fifth  season,  is  n't  it,  dear  ? 

But  really  you  are  little  worse  :  — 
And  I  am  sure  you  loved  last  year 
Sir  Wilfred  with  his  rent-roll  clear. — 

A  person  at  St.  John's  Wood  ?     Shame ! 

No  proper  girl  should  ever  name 
A  person  there  or  person  here ; 
And,  no  doubt,  she  is  the  one  to  blame. 

They  always  are,  these  creatures.     Ah ! 

This  wicked  world  we  're  living  in  ! 
There  sliould  be  some  severer  law 

For  low-born  creatures  who  would  win 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  gy 

Youth  over  to  the  ways  of  sin. 
But  there  's  that  shameful  Act  which  frees 
Their  vice  from  want  and  from  disease, 

Although  they  neither  toil  nor  spin, — 
Right  in  the  face  of  all  heaven's  decrees. 

It 's  shameful,  shocking  ;   quite  enough 

To  bring  down  on  us  wrath  divine  ; 
I  don't  care  for  their  facts  and  stuff, 

I  won't  believe  a  single  line. 

I  know  it's  sin.     And  I  opine 
Gladstone  our  morals  means  to  sap, 
And  then,  his  wickedness  to  cap. 

The  House  of  Lords  he'll  undermine 
And  bring  in  the  Pope  like  a  thunder-clap. 

All  men  are  dreadful  wicked.     Sad 

It  is  to  say  it;   but  it's  true; 
You  hardly  would  believe  how  bad ; 

So  bad  that  it  would  never  do 

5  G 


g8  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA. 

If  girls  before  their  marriage  knew. 
And  if  you  will  be  prude  and  nice 
And  will  go  poking  into  vice, 

And  shying  when  it  comes  in  view, 
You  will  never  be  married  at  any  price. 

Now,  hear  me,  Rose  :  give  up  at  once 

Your  silly  fancy  for  this  boy 
Whom  you  have  led  an  idle  dance, 

I  dare  say,  only  to  annoy 

Sir  Wilfred  ;   and  for  once  employ 
The  arts  that  others  use  for  sin 
His  erring  heart  again  to  win 

Back  to  a  purer  life  and  joy. 
Which  you're  certain  to  do  if  you '11  just  begin. 

Be  patient  now  ;  leave  all  to  me  ; 

Don't  fiy  off  in  a  girlish  hufif. 
You'll  need  a  new  dress,  —  let  me  see, — 

Of  some  soft,  lustrous,  dainty  stuff; 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  99 

Made  Christian-like  and  low  enough,  — 
You  did  not  get  a  bust  like  this 
To  hide  like  some  raw  country  miss,  — 

Say  poplin  of  a  delicate  buff; 
With  Honiton  lace,  for  a  taste  like  his ; 

You  never  yet  knew  how  to  dress, 

You  never  have  a  gown  to  fit. 
Your  things  are  always  in  a  mess 

That 's  shocking,  even  to  look  at  it ; 

Your  colors  somehow  never  hit, 
They  never  match  themselves  nor  you ; 
They  're  always  out  of  fashion  too ; 

And  as  for  gloves,  you  must  admit 
They  're  just  the  one  thing  that  you  cannot  do. 

Anyhow,  leave  all  that  to  me. 

Could  I  but  see  you  settled  well, 
As,  sure,  my  daughter  ought  to  be, 

I  'd  die  in  peace  unspeakable. 


lOO  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMJNA. 

Why  am  I  here  ?   why  do  I  dwell 
In  this  unhappy  world  ?    unless 
To  help  my  children,  and  express 

Undying  faith  in  principle, — 
Though  I  don't  like  your  baronet's  quite,  I  confess. 

He  wants  to  open  the  Museum 

Upon  the  blessed  Sabbath-day; 
He  wants  the  bands  to  play  "  Te  Deum  " 

When  we  should  go  to  church  and  pray; 

It  will  be  masses  next,  I  say ;  — 
His  views  of  sin  are  far  from  sound ; 
Eternal  punishment,  I  found. 

He  will  not  hear  of;   and  his  way 
Is  altogether  on  dangerous  ground. 

But  then,  woe's  me!   you're  all  the  same; 

All  turned  from  Bible-teaching  quite, 
All  snared  in  folly,  sin,  and  shame, 

And  blinded  to  the  only  light. 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  loi 

4nd  he  at  least  is  of  the  right 
Old  blood,  and  has  an  income  nice, 
And  never  touches  cards  or  dice 
Or  horses.     It 's  a  happy  sight, 
A  man  of  his  rank  with  a  single  vice. 

It 's  wonderful,  most  wonderful, 

The  times  we  're  living  in !     And  yet 

We  're  born,  and  christened,  and  go  to  school, 
And  marry  Lord  or  Baronet, 
And  dress  and  dine,  and  vex  and  fret. 

And  strive  the  tide  of  Fate  to  stem 

Which  Prophets  had  revealed  to  them. 
And  never  think  the  times  are  set 
For  the  Jews'  going  back  to  Jerusalem. 

The  Prophets  say  that  there  shall  be 
A  Highway  and  a  Way  :  we  read 

Also  of  ships  upon  the  sea. 

Made  of  bulrushes  ;   and  we  need, 


I02  LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA. 

Unless  you  think  I  'm  blind  indeed, 
Unless  I  'm  blinder  than  a  bat, 
No  prophet  to  interpret  that. 

With  a  steamboat  running  at  full  speed 
On  the  Suez  Canal,  like  a  water-rat. 

There  could  not  be  a  clearer  sign 

That  now  the  end  draws  near  in  view. 
And  that  it 's  Providence'  design 

To  bring  deliverance  to  the  Jew, 

And  break  their  bonds. — Now,  shame  on  you 
To  scofif  with  your  unhallowed  wit ; 
There  's  almost  blasphemy  in  it :  — 

I  don't  mean  bonds  of  I  O  U, 
Such  as  Charlie  gives  when  he's  badly  hit. 

But  wherefore  speak  of  things  like  these 
To  things  like  you,  who  heed  no  more 

The  murmur  of  prophetic  breeze 
Than  creaking  of  a  rusty  door  ? 


LOQUITUR  MATER  DOMINA.  103 

You  walk  along  the  solemn  shore 
Washed  by  the  tide  of  awful  doom, 
While  lights  and  shadows  flash  and  gloom, 

And  neither  wonder  nor  adore. 
But  stamp  and  "pshaw"  through  the  drawing-room. 


.00k   Jourtlj, 


5* 


eft)  ito  rial. 

I  will  not  answer  for  my  wife's  reports  ; 
Quite  true,  no  doubt,  in  the  main,  as  true  at  least 
As  the  most  excellent  women  can  report 
People  they  don't  much  like ;    not  meant  to  bear 
Law3'er's  cross-questioning,  which  they  detest 
With  a  good  conscience,  conscious  that  they  speak 
True  to  the  idea,  if  the  facts  hang  loose 
At  one  point,  at  another  have  been  joined 
Ingeniously.     Men  are  so  troublesome! 
Rose  was  not  faultless,  as  her  lovers  swore, 
Nor  yet  so  faulty  as  my  Hester  thought : 
Women  judge  women  hardly ;    hit  perchance 
The  likeness  true  enough  by  instinct  keen 


lo8  EDirOKIAI. 

That,  piecing  trivial  incidents,  detects 

The  soul  of  character ;   but  they  have  no  shading, 

No  softening  tints,  no  generous  allowance 

For  circumstance,  to  make  the  picture  human, 

And  true  because  so  human.     Rose  was  human  ; 

And  for  a  woman  born  of  such  a  mother. 

And  for  a  woman  reared  in  such  a  world, 

And  for  a  woman  dowered  with  queenly  beauty 

Set  out  for  sale,  and  buzzed  by  flatterers 

All  her  lifelong,  was  even  womanly, 

And  better  truly  than  she  might  have  been. 

So  stately  as  she  left  my  lady's  chamber, 

Her  full  eyes  flashing  scorn,  yet  with  her  scorn 

Contending  to  retain  a  mother  still. 

If  no  more  shrined  in  natural  reverence. 

Yet  cloaked  with  charit}'.     But  in  the  hall 

Her  heart  failed,  and  she  pressed  her  forehead  flushed 

On  the  cold  fluting  of  a  marble  pillar. 

And  wept  to  feel  her  life  so  desolate, 


EDITORIAL. 


109 


And  wept  still  more  because  the  world  had  made  it 

So  desolate,  yet  was  the  world  her  all ; 

She  loathed  it,  but  she  knew  it  was  her  all. 

Thus  she  with  passionate  rebellion  wept, 

Printing  the  fluted  pillar  on  her  brow, 

And  then  with  weary,  lifeless  steps  she  went 

Heavily  to  her  father's  chamber  door. 

The  Squire  was  banished  to  a  little  room 
That  overlooked  a  paved  court  and  a  mews. 
A  small,  close  chamber,  lined  with  dusty  books 
And  dingy  maps ;   and  savage  crania 
Grinned  from  high  shelves,  with  clubs  and  arrow-heads 
And  tools  of  flint,  and  shields  of  hide  embossed. 
There  were  great  cobwebs  on  the  windows  dim. 
Where  bloated  spiders  watched  their  webs,  and  heard 
The  blue-fly  knock  his  head  against  the  pane. 
And  buzz  about  their  snares.     And  through  the  room, 
On  table  and  chair,  were  globes  and  glasses  tall, 
Retorts  and  crucibles,  electric  jars 


no  EDITORIAL. 

And  batteries,  and  microscopes  and  prisms 
And  balances,  and  fossil  plants  and  shells, 
Disorderly  and  dusty ;   and  the  floor 
Was  carpeted  with  papers  and  thick  dust, — 
Papers  and  books  and  instruments  and  dust. 

A  gray  old  man  sat  in  that  dim  gray  room 
Wrapt  in  a  dressing-gown  of  soft  gray  stuff, 
And  puzzling  o'er  a  paper  wearily 
Of  circles,  squares,  and  pentagons,  and  lines 
Of  logarithms,  he  strove  to  disentangle. 
He  was  a  little,  brisk,  bald-headed  man, 
With  fiery  eyes,  and  forehead  narrow  and  high 
And  far-retiring  :   one  who  could  have  led 
A  regiment  to  the  belching  cannon's  mouth 
If  wisely  ordered  when  ;  or  might  have  headed 
The  cheery  hunt  across  the  stubble  field, 
Taking  the  fences  gallantly,  nor  turning 
From  the  wide  brook  to  seek  the  safer  ford. 
But  being  held  in  London  half  the  year. 


EDITORIAL. 


Ill 


And  with  no  taste  for  politics  or  fashion, 

Or  such  rehgion  as  he  came  across, 

He  took  to  Science,  made  experiments, 

Bought  many  nice  and  costly  instruments, 

Heard  lectures,  and  believed  he  understood 

Beetle-browed  Science  wrestling  with  the  fact 

To  find  its  meaning  clear  ;   but  all  in  vain. 

He  thought  he  thought,  and  yet  he  did  not  think, 

But  only  echoed  still  the  common  thought. 

As  might  an  empty  room.     The  forehead  high 

And  fiery  eye  had  no  reflection  in  them 

To  brood  and  hatch  the  secret  of  the  world. 

He  could  but  skim  and  dip,  like  restless  swallow 

Fly-catching  on  the  surface  of  all  knowledge 

Anthro{)ologic  and  Botanical 

And  Chemical,  and  what  was  last  set  forth 

By  charlatan  to  stun  the  vulgar  sense. 

But  yet  a  strain  of  noble  chivalry 

Ran  through  his  nature,  and  a  faint  crisp  humor 

Rippled  his  thought,  and  would  have  been  a  joy 


112  EDITORIAL. 

Had  life  been  kindlier  ;  but  his  cheeriest  smile 
Verged  on  a  sneer,  and  ran  to  mocking  laughter. 
Yet  under  all  his  pottering  at  science, 
And  deeper  than  his  feeble  cynic  sneer, 
Lay  a  great  love,  to  which  he  fondly  clung, 
For  Rose,  the  stately  daughter  of  his  house. 


ILoquitur   ^atcr. 

T    WILL  not  hear  of  it.     No  more; 

Besides,  I  'm  busy,  as  I  said  ; 
You  come  and  knock,  knock  at  my  door, 
And  drive  all  thought  clean  from  my  head. 
Just  when  at  last  I  've  caught  the  thread, 
Subtle  and  brittle  and  sought  for  long. 
That  would  most  surely  bind  a  throng 
Of  facts  together,  firmly  wed 
By  doctrine  of  Science  clear  and  strong. 

I  labor  and  experiment, 

I  methodize  and  meditate, 
I  watch  the  bias  and  the  bent 

Of  the  mind's  idols.     Still  I  wait 

H 


114  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

And  verify  and  speculate, 
When  rat-tat-tat !  my  mind  's  a  blank, 
My  thread  of  thought,  a  tangled  hank, 
My  ordered  facts,  confusion  great;  — 
And  it's  always  you  women  I  have  to  thank. 

You've  heard  of  Newton's  dog  that  spoiled 
The  calculations  of  long  years, 

And  of  that  brutish  maid  whose  soiled 
And  sooty  fingers  used  the  tears 
Of  genius  and  its  hopes  and  fears, 

Page  after  page,  to  light  her  fire, — 

A  horrible  and  impious  pyre ! 

So  all  my  labored  thought  appears 
To  melt,  like  the  snow,  into  slush  and  mire. 

I  say  it 's  worse  than  Suttee,  or 
The  sacrifice  of  beautiful  youth, 

This  waste  of  thought  long  waited  for. 
This  fruitless  birth  of  still-born  truth. 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  115 

What  matters  for  the  silly,  smooth, 
Meaningless  face  of  widow  trim, 
Slow  roasting  to  a  drowsy  hymn  ? 

But  you  do  rob  the  world  in  sooth, 
When  the  lights  of  Science  are  quenched  or  dim. 

Is  't  not  enough  to  have  your  maids 
Scrubbing  and  brooming  at  my  door, 

With  whispers  shrill,  and  sudden  raids 
On  cobwebs  that  have  taught  me  more 
Wisdom  and  beauty  than  a  score 

Of  chattering  girls?     Only  last  night 

I  found  my  favorite  beetle  quite 

Crushed  and  mangled  upon  the  floor ; 
And  the  jade  held  to  it  she  did  quite  right. 

A  plague  on  maids !  and  him  who  first 
Invented  them  !     They  're  all  the  same. 

I  've  tried  them  saucy,  tried  them  curst, 
I  've  tried  them  sluts,   and  tried  to  tame 


Il6  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

Their  natural  instincts,  and  to  shame 
Their  ignorance,  and  to  abate 
Their  furious  and  unfeehng  hate 

Of  fellow-creatures ;  but  my  claim 
Was  vain  as  ajDpeal  to  the  wheels  of  Fate. 

Whate'er  they  do  not  understand 

Is  dirt,  and  must  be  brushed  away ; 
They  'd  broom  all  science  from  the  land, 

And  scour  from  heaven  the  Milky  Way. 

I  plan  by  night,  I  work  by  day 
With  chemic  and  electric  Force, 
And  tremble  as  I  watch  the  course 

Of  nature  ;   all  in  vain,  for  they 
Baffle  in  some  way  my  best  resource. 

And  now  you  come,  like  all  the  rest, 
My  daughter,  but  a  woman  still. 

My  daughter,  whom  I  thought  the  best 
Of  possible  daughters,  trained  with  skilly 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  ny 

And  scliooled  in  Science  to  fulfil 
The  part  of  Cuvier's  daughter  true  ; 
And  when  I  hope  and  trust  in  you, 
You  fall  in  love,  and  coo  and  bill, 
And  want  to  know  what  I  mean  to  do. 

Of  course,  the  fellow  came  to  me, 

And  talked  of  marriage,  love,  and  trash, 
As  if  he  thought  I  did   not  see 

He  meant  just  settlements  and  cash. 

But  there 's  my  banker  gone  to  smash. 
Shares  fallen  to  nothing,  farmers'  rents 
Begged  off,  and  half  my  three  per  cents 

Gone  to  save  Charlie  from  a  smash ; 
And  where  is  the  money  for  settlements? 

O  yes  !     He  did  not  care  for  that. 
He  did  not  woo  you  for  your  gold, 

He  wished  for  nothing,  cared  not  what 
You  brought  or  did  not  bring  him  ;    told 


Il8  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

His  means  and  prospects,  and  was  bold 
To  think   that  love  like  his  and  yours 
'W'ould  work  miraculous  works  and  cures, 

Keep  you  from  hunger,  debt,  and  cold. 
And  all  the  evils  that  man  endures. 

The  old  stor)',   Rose ;    the  silly  stuff 

Of  fools  and  beggars  superfine ! 
Why !   he  has  hardly  means  enough 

To  keep  you  in  gloves  and  flowers  and  wine. 

You  could  not  dress,  you  could  not  dine, 
You  could  not  keep  a  maid  or  horse, 
Or  drive  but  in  a  cab,  or  worse  ;  — 

The  man's  a  fool;    no  child  of  mine 
Could  marry  a  beggar  like  him,  of  course. 

I  marvel  at  his  impudence  ; 

A  fellow  with  some  paltry  three 
Hundred  a  year!     A  grain  of  sense  — 

But  that  he  hasn't  —  had  made  him  see 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  ug 

The  silliness  of  plaguing  nie. 
His  genius  and  his  prospects  ?     Well  ; 
Can  you  eat  prospects  ?     Will  they  sell  ? 
And  will  his  trumpery  genius  be 
A  dinner,  or  only  a  dinner-bell  ? 

There,  there ;   don't  cry ;    I  do  not  mean 

He  is  not  all  that  you  would  say, — 
A  handsome  fellow,  as  I  've  seen. 

And  true  and  modest  in  his  way  : 

And  it  is  hard  to  say  you  nay ; 
Yet  why  should  your  old  father  lose 
His  one  ewe-lamb  ?     Why  should  he  choose 

To  steal  my  only  joy  away. 
Since  Charlie  went  to  the  dogs  and  Jews  ? 

And  that  reminds  me,  Charlie  says 

Your  friend 's  a  screw,  and  awful  close  : 

But  then  he 's  poor,  and  no  doubt  pays 
His  way,  which  Charlie  never  does. 


20  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

That  makes  a  difference,  for  those 
May  freely  give  and  lend,  whose  purse 
Is  shut  to  all  their  creditors. 

I  wish  I  knew  their  secret.  Rose, 
How  never  to  pay,  and  be  never  the  worse. 

Well,  yes ;    I  liked  him,  as  you  say. 

And  praised  him  to  my  friends ;    and  he 
May  wed  their  daughters  any  day 

He  likes,  —  that's  no  concern  to  me. 

But  this  I  could  not  bear  to  see. 
My  Rose  stuck  in  his  buttonhole. 
And  shunned,  like  any  stained  soul. 

By  a  world  that  hates  all  poverty, — 
And  the  world  is  perfectly  right,  on  the  whole. 

But  tush  !   with  marriage  and  affiance ; 

The  Medium  waits  me  at  the  door, 
That  Pythoness  of  modern  science. 

Who  brings  back  Intellect  once  more 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  12 1 

To  hear  and  wonder  and  adore. 
She  photographed  by  electric  hght 
My  old  Grandmother's  ghost  last  night, 

The  very  cap  and  wig  she  wore, 
While  the  spirit  sat  by  me  there  bolt  upright. 

I  did  not  see  Her  ;   but  I  saw 

The  portrait  like  as  like  could  be, 
And  felt  a  kind  of  creeping  awe, 

And  old  religion  back  in  me ; 

A  hand  was  laid  upon  my  knee, 
And  there  was  music  in  the  air. 
The  very  song  she  whiled  my  care 

Away  with  in  my  infancy ; 
And  she  lives  in  some  kind  of  a  sphere  somewhere. 

And  conscience  twitched  me,  like  a  spasm, 

For  hitherto  I  had  no  faith 
In  anything  but  protoplasm  ; 

I  held  that  spirit  was  but  breath, 
c 


22  LOQUITUR   PATER. 

And  all  the  Future  silent  death. 
And  what,  if  Science  shall  restore 
The  faith  it  robbed  me  of  before  ? 

For  call  it  spirit,  ghost,  or  wraith, 
One  was  there  who  did  not  come  in  by  the  door. 

It  's  wonderful  what  now  we  do  ; 

This  is  a  mighty  age  indeed, 
With  march  of  Intellect  so  true. 

From  prejudice  and  bondage  freed, 

And  pious  fraud,  and  worn-out  creed ! 
We  weigh  the  farthest  stars  in  scales, 
We  comprehend  the  wandering  gales, 

We  summon  spirits  at  our  need 
From  the  shadowy  world  which  love  bewails. 

I  don't  deny  that,  heretofore. 

The  spirits  have  not  much  to  tell, 

That  Shakespeare  's  something  of  a  bore. 
That  Milton  proses  about  Hell, 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  123 

That  Scott  has  lost  his  wizard  spell, 
That  Plato  has  forgot  his  Greek, 
That  Byron  's  dull,  and  Goethe  weak ; 

But,  then,  deal  tables  could  not  well 
Utter  the  thoughts  they  might  wish  to  speak. 

We  wait  for  better  instruments, — 

Wind  harps  to  suit  the  spirit  hand, 
Sweet  lutes  to  place  beside  the  rents 

In  the  dim  walls  of  the  spirit-land. 

No  Maestro  with  his  cunning  wand 
Beethoven's  symphonies  could  get 
From  bones  and  bagpipes.     We  are  yet 

But  groping  'mong  the  secrets  grand 
Of  the  mystic  spiritual  Alphabet. 

At  any  rate,  this  is  the  age 

Of  miracles  proper,  —  wonders  done 

By  careful  reading  the  dark  page 
Of  Nature,  searching  one  by  one 


124  LOQiJTUR  rATER. 

Her  secrets  till  there  shall  be  none. 
And  he  who  reads  them  is  the  true 
Prophet-Apostle  of  this  new 
Annus  mirabilis,  whose  sun 
Shines  its  great  light  now  on  me  and  you. 

Wonders  of  Science  !   marvels  high, 

Beyond  our  wildest  dream  or  hope, 
Found  in  the  sunlight  and  the  sky 

By  spectroscope  and  telescope  I 

Miracles  in  a  dirty  drop 
Of  water  from  a  stagnant  pool ! 
And  every  lichened  rock  is  full 

Of  history;   and  there's  a  crop 
Of  marvels  now  in  a  table  or  stool ! 

Now,  go  to  your  mother.  Rose,  she'll  give 
Excellent  counsel  in  Heaven's  name  ; 

Right  worldly  wisdom,  as  I  live, 
And  all  in  pious  phrase  and  frame. 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  125 

I  wish  I  knew  that  Httle  game, 
It  is  a  secret  worth  the  knowing, 
To  clothe  with  Scripture  Language  glowing 

The  Devil's  plain  common  sense,  and  claim 
The  Word  of  truth  for  the  truth's  o'erthrowing. 

What?     You  have  only  come  from  her? 

Well,  I  'm  a  beast,  a  perfect  brute. 
To  fret  and  fume  and  stamp  and  stir 

With  fretful  word,  and  angry  foot, 

While  my  poor  girl  stands  still  and  mute. 
With  that  taste  in  her  mouth,  where  all 
Nauseous  bitters  scriptural 

Are  mingled  by  a  branch-and-root 
Right  Low  Church  Evangelical. 

But  come,  now,  tell  me  what  she  said. 

Yet  what  needs  asking  that  ?     Of  course. 
Her  heart  was  broken,  and  she  prayed 

For  Death  to  come  on  his  pale  horse. 


126  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

And  all  the  world  was  waxing  worse ; 
And  then  she  blamed  your  wicked  views, 
And  touched  upon  the  elected  Jews 
Going  to  Zion  back  in  force, — 
And  they  can't  go  sooner  than  I  would  choose. 

And  still  beneath  the  grieving  saint, 
You  found  the  nether  millstone  hard  ; 

She  's  not  a  fool,  nor  given  to  faint, 
But  maundered  nonsense  by  the  yard, 
Until  she  had  you  off  your  guard, 

Then  lisped  soft  words  that  stung  you  sore. 

And  hints  that  maddened  you  still  more. 
You  bit  the  peach  and  for  reward 
Cracked  your  teeth  on  the  stony  core. 

I  know  it  all ;   the  winding  stream 

Of  pious  babble  linked  along. 
As  loose  as  some  fantastic  dream. 

Oblivious  of  all  right  and  wrong, 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  127 

Here  swirling  round  in  eddies  strong 
'Neath  twisted  roots  of  old  dead  thought, 
There  slushing  among  mud  and  rot, 

And  chill  as  salt  and  snow  among 
The  tremblings  of  feeling  highly  wrought. 

Our  modern  science  has  not  left 

A  leg  for  faith  to  stand  upon  ; 
Of  all  its  miracles  bereft, 

Its  history  to  myth  all  gone  ; 

Yet  would  it  surely  hold  its  own 
But  for  that  nether  millstone  bit 
That  lieth  in  the  heart  of  it. 

A  little  mercy  would  atone 
For  failure  of  reason,  and  lack  of  wit. 

She  is  your  mother,  and  my  wife? 

Well,  yes  !    and  may  be  I  have  been 
No  wise  guide  for  a  troubled  life, 

To  lead  it  to  the  peace  serene. 


128  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

A  brighter  girl  was  never  seen  ; 
There  's  none  of  you  that  may  compare, 
A  moment,  with  her  beauty  rare, 

Her  perfect  sense,  and  insight  keen.  — 
How  she  headed  the  liunt  on  that  wild  black  mare ! 

Ah !   well ;   that  's  past.     And  I  am  vexed 

If  I  have  added  to  your  pain. 
I  did  not  mean  it.     I  'm  perplexed 

With  Charlie's  gambling  debts  again. 

Do  what  I  will,  't  is  all  in  vain  : 
He  plays  to-night,  and  prays  to-morrow, 
Now  tries  to  preach,  and  now  to  borrow 

Among  the  Jews ;   and  then  is  fain 
To  come  to  me  when  he  comes  to  sorrow. 

Now,  kiss  me,  Rose,  and  let  me  go; 

And  put  this  business  quite  away 
Out  of  your  thoughts.     You  surely  know 

'T  is  easier  far  for  me  to  say 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  129 

A  yea  to  any  one  than  nay ; 
And  yea  to  thee  was  pleasant  still, 
Anci  nay,  against  my  heart  and  will ; 

But  it  would  quench  my  light  of  day, 
If  aught  should  happen  to  thee  of  ill. 

Even  when  you  leave  me  for  a  home, 

Happy  and  honored,  it  will  be 
The  last  bright  day  shall  ever  come 

With  sunshine  to  my  home  and  me ; 

And  the  years  afterwards  will  flee 
Like  drift  of  dry  and  barren  sand 
Along  the  shore,  between  the  land 

And  the  low  moaning  of  the  sea 
That  creeps  with  the  gray  mist,  hand  in  hand. 

If  you  had  loved  with  love  supreme, 

Which  to  itself  is  all  in  all ; 
If  you  were  lapt  in  blissful  dream, 

Which  wakens  not  at  any  call, 

6*  I 


130  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

But  still  loves  on  whate'cr  befall ; 
If  worldly  custom,  j)ricle,  and  show, 
And  all  your  wonted  life  might  flow 

Past  you  unheeded,  and  the  small 
Tattle  of  fools,  like  the  winds  that  blow ; 

If  I  could  think  you  loved  like  this, 
And  had  no  half-heart  for  the  world, 

If  perfect  Love  were  perfect  bliss, 

Whose  spotless  flag  you  had  unfurled, 
And  its  serene  defiance  hurled 

At  toil,  contempt,  and  hardships  great,  — 

But  you  have  ne'er  confronted  Fate  : 
Your  love  is  rosy,  scented,  curled. 
And  dreams  of  a  carriage,  and  man  to  wait. 

My  dear,  you  know  it  not ;  but  yet 

That  is  the  truth  ;    I  've  read  your  heart 

You  are  no  heroine  ;   you  would  fret 
To  play  a  common,  obscure  part, 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  131 

To  watch  the  coming  baker's  cart, 
To  tremble  at  the  butcher's  bill, 
To  patch  and  darn  and  hem,  and  still 

To  make  yourself  look  neat  and  smart 
In  a  twopenny  print  and  a  muslin  frill. 

There  's  nothing  of  the  hero,  Rose, 

In  any  of  us.     We  could  fight, 
I  dare  say,  if  it  came  to  blows, 

Almost  like  the  old  Norman  knight 

Who  won  our  lands, —  Heaven  bless  his  might! 
We  could  not  win  them  if  we  tried,  — 
We  can  but  shoot  and  fish  and  ride. 

And  lightly  spend  what  came  so  light. 
And  I  don't  know  we  can  do  aught  beside. 

Indeed,  you  must  not  think  of  it. 

For  us  there  's   naught  but  commonplace. 
A  dinner  good,  a  dress  to  fit, 

A  ride  to  hunt,  a  pretty  face. 


132  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

Old  \Yine,  old  china,  and  old  lace  ; 
We  can  no  more.     I  "vc  tried  to  know 
Science,  but  Science  will  not  show 

Her  secrets  to  the  trifling  race 
Of  Dilettanti,  brisk  or  slow. 

You  don't  like  this,  you  don't  like  that  ; 

You  don't  like  horsy-hunting  squires, 
You  don't  like  parsons  sleek  and  fat, 

You  don't  like  those  whose  only  fires 

Are  the  quenched  ashes  of  their  sires  ; 
Nor  do  you  love  this  Thorold  so. 
That  you  with  him,  like  lilve,  would  go 

Into  a  world  of  thorns  and  briers, 
Glad  to  be  with  him  in  weal  or  woe. 

That  is  the  curse  upon   us.  Rose ; 

We  cannot  dare  a  noble  fate, 
And  yet  our  hearts  find  no  repose 

In  all  our  empty  show  and  state  : 


LOQUITUR  PATER.  133 

We  can  be  neither  small  nor  great ; 
With  strong  desire  and  feeble  power 
We  hanker  through  our  weary  hour, 
Like  flowers  that  try  to  blossom  late, 
In  a  sickly  struggle  with  frost  and  shower. 

Our  race  is  run  :  the  Norman  knight 

Is  distanced  by  the  engineer ; 
The  cotton-spinner  beats  us  quite 

When  all  the  battle  is  to  clear 

A  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year  : 
That  is  the  glory  of  our  age. 
Six  figures  on  the  Ledger's  page,  — 

And  no  bad  glory  either,  dear, 
As  glory  goes  among  saint  and  sage. 

Our  life  is  all  a  poor  illusion, 

And  nothing  is  that  seems  to  be  ; 

Our  knowledge  only  breeds  confusion, 
Our  love  is  moonshine  on  the  sea. 


134  LOQUITUR  PATER. 

Our  faith  is  but  the  shadow  we 
Cast  on  the  cloud  that  bounds  our  view ; 
And  to  be  virtuous  and  true 

Is  trouble,  plague,  and  misery, 
If  we  have  not  the  funds  when  the  bills  come  due. 


gooli  fxiih. 


I 


i 


(^iJitorial. 

Dressed,  like  a  penitent,  in  sombre  black 
That  hung  about  her  limp  and  scrimp,  and  all 
Without  relief  of  ribbon,  lace,  or  tucker, 
Collar,  or  cuff,  or  any  lightsome  thing ; 
Her  hair,  that  wont  in  regal  braid  to  fold 
A  shining  coronet  around  her  brow, 
Stuffed  loosely  in  a  net ;   nor  ring  nor  jewel 
Gracing  the  hand  that  trembled  as  it  lifted 
A  book,  a  pencil,  or  an  ornament, 
And  could  not  help  but  lift  them ;  so  arrayed, 
A  nun-like  woman  over  all  dull  and  sad. 
In  tragic  dress  of  studied  negligence, 
Which  covered  not  the  less  a  tragic  pain,  — 
For  there  are  souls  that  live  in  symbolisms, 


138  EDITORIAL. 

And  are  most  true  in  most  dramatic  seeming, — 
Thus  Rose  awaited  for  the  sacrifice. 

She  could   not  rest,  but  paced  about  the  room  ; 
Now  drawing  curtains  close,  to  dim  the  light ; 
Now  watching  the  slow  movement  of  the  clock, 
Uncertain  whether  to  chide  its  tardy  pace. 
Or  its  unfeeling  haste ;  now  sitting  down. 
Holding  her  side,   or  white,  spasm-choking  throat ; 
And  anon  starting  up  to  stamp  and  frown. 
With  flashing  look  defiant,  saying,  "  I  will " ; 
But   soon   she   drooped   her   head,   and  sobbed,   "  I 

cannot ; 
God,  pity  me,  a  creature  pitiful ; 
I  dare  not  say,  God  help  me,  for  this  business 
Is  one  he  cannot  help  in.     I  am  to  choose 
Deliberately  the  mean  life  I  have  proven. 
And  knowing  it  so  hollow,  heartless,  vain. 
And  knowing,  too,  the  better  life  of  love, 
And  knowing  it  may  break  a  noble  heart, 


EDITORIAL.  139 

And  make  mine  own  a  lean  and  barren  heart, 

I  am  to  seal  a  covenant  'jyith  darkness, 

And  sign  mine  own  death-warrant.     Can  I  do  it? 

Is  there  no  hope,  no  other  way  but  this, 

As  they  all  tell  me  ?  —  how  I  hate  them  all  ! 

Why  was  there  none  to  back  my  better  thought, 

And  help  the  struggling  spirit  to  do  right? 

O  Father,  mother,  brother,  why  do  all 

Forsake  me?   ply  me  so  with  reasons  strong 

To  play  the  baser  part?     Was  ever  girl 

So  hard  beset  with  preachers  of  a  lie  ? 

Was  ever  girl  so  drawn  by  cords  of  love 

To  break  the  cord  of  Love?     Or  can  it  be, 

As  they  do  all  aver,  and  I  myself 

Half  feel,  yet  hate  myself  for  feeling"  it. 

That  this  poor  world  of  Custom  is  my  Fate  ; 

That  I  must  be  what  yet  I  scorn  to  be  3 

That  empty  as  it  is,  it  is  my  all  ; 

That  I  should  only  wreck  another  soul. 

Trying  another  life;  —  that  I  have  lost. 


I40  EDITORIAL. 

With  their  upbringing,  simple  womanhood 

And  patient  strength  of  love?     Too  late,  too  late! 

That  is  his  step,  his  ring.     I  know  them  well, 

As  the  fond  wife  her  husband's  footfall  kens, 

Home-coming  while  she  watches  for  his  coming. 

Ah  me  !    how  often  I  have  sat  intent 

To  hear  it,  while  they  thought  I  heeded  them 

Dully  haw-hawing,  which  he  never  did ; 

Stupidly  flattering,  which  he  never  did  ; 

Or  peddling  in  the  Devil's  small-ware,  gossip 

And  innuendo,  which  he  never  did ; 

For  he  is  gracious,  generous,  and  true  : 

And  all  the  time  my  spirit  was  not  here, 

But  hovering  by  the  door,  and  out  and  in. 

And,  hungering  for  him,  hated  them  the  more. 

And  now  I  shake  and  shiver  like  a  rush 

To  hear  the  step  which  I  shall  hear  no  more. 

No  more  !    he  will  not  see  me  any  more ! 

No  more  !    and  I  must  snap  with  mine  own  hand 

The  gold-thread  in  my  life,  and  make  it  all 


1 


EDITORIAL. 


141 


Leaden  and  passionless  forevermore  ! 
I  hate  it  all ;   I  '11  do  some  wicked  thing, 
I  know,  ere  all  is  ended.     How  I  dread 
The  future  they  have  fashioned  out  for  me, 
And  fierce  rebellion  of  the  best  in  me 
Against  the  duty  which  were  good  for  me  ! 
Heaven  help  me  to  be  true  at  least  to  him 
When  falsest  to  myself;   my  way  is  hard." 
Then  she  sat  down,  and  was  composed  and  calm 
To  look  at,  as  a  marble  monument. 


I^oquitur  ^osjc. 

"XT  AY,  sit  down  there,  and  touch  me  not : 

I  am  not  worthy ;   and  I  feel 
In  my  shamed  soul  the  leprous  spot 
Burn  in  thy  presence.     I  would  kneel, 
Or  put  my  neck  beneath  thy  heel, 
If  Nature  had  her  way,  and  youth 
Its  old  simplicity  and  truth: 

But  the  wolf's  gnawing  we  conceal 
'Neath  a  surface  passionless,  bland,  and  smooth. 

No  more  ashamed  of  doing  wrong. 
We  are  ashamed  of  feeling  right. 

Ashamed  of  any  feeling  strong. 
And  of  all  shame  ashamed  quite  : 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  1 43 

And  I  am  like  the  rest;   the  light 
Laughter  of  fools  arrests  my  shame 
And  self-contempt  and  bitter  blame : 

So  we  must  meet  as  if  the  might 
Of  passion  and  pain  were  an  empty  name. 

Ah  me  !    't  is  hard  for  me  to  speak, 

And  will  be  hard  for  you  to  hear; 
Yet  do  not  comfort  me,  nor  seek 

To  soothe  one  pang  or  stay  one  tear. 

No  fear  of  that,  alas  !  no  fear ; 
More  like  to  scorn  me  for  the  lot 
Which  I  have  chosen  ;   yet  scorn  me  not ; 

I  've  been  so  happy,  being  so  dear  ; 
Yet  I  'd  rather  be  hated  than  quite  forgot. 

I  've  been  so  happy,  and  can  be 
No  more  as  I  have  been  again  ; 

And  my  most  cherished  memory 

Henceforth  shall  be  my  keenest  pain. 


144 


LOQUITUR  ROSE. 


I  have  been  loved  ;   that  will  remain 
The  treasured  thought  of  all  m}'  prime, 
The  treasured  grief  of  all  my  time  ; 
And  I  have  loved,  and  not  in  vain, 
Though  my  Love,  in  Love's  vision,  was  almost  crime. 

I  loved  above  myself,  —  above 

Mine  own  capacity  of  soul. 
As  one  that  with  an  earthly  love 

Seeks  Heaven,  yet  spurns  its  high  control. 

I  did  aspire  unto  the  role 
Of  a  great  blessedness,  unmeet 
For  such  as  me.     'T  w-as  very  sweet, 

While  the  dream  lasted  round  and  whole, 
But  the  sorrow  of  waking  is  more  complete. 

Yet  do  not  let  me  wholly  pass 

Out  of  your  mind,  though  I  must  be 

Apart  from  your  true  life,  alas ! 
And  from  a  meaner  level  see, 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  1 45 

As  one  looks  where  the  stars  go  free, 
Its  struggle  brave  and  triumph  great, 
For  you  will  strive  and  conquer  Fate  : 

And  think  not  bitterly  of  me 
When  you  take  to  your  bosom  a  worthier  mate. 

But  let  me  speak  all  I  must  say, 

For  I  must  say  it,  though  my  heart 
Protests  with  an  indignant  nay ! 

And  loathes  to  play  the  ignoble  part. 

Ignoble  it  is  :  I  have  no  art 
To  picture  wrong  as  it  were  right ; 
But  if  I  sin  I  sin  outright, 

And  know  it  sin,  and  know  the  smart 
Will  follow  as  surely  as  day  and  night. 

I  hate  a  sham  ;  let  bad  be  bad, 
And  good  be  good  forevermore  : 

Who  doeth  right,  let  him  be  glad, 
Knowing  the  good  he  liveth  for  ; 
7  J 


I  .(3  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

Who  doeth  wrong,  let  him,  too,  pour 
Unshrinking  light  upon  his  ill, 
And  do  it  with  determined  will:  — 

Our  Devil  clings  to  his  role  of  yore, 
And  is  fain  to  play  the  good  angel  still. 

I  had  a  schoolmate  once,  —  a  girl 

Much  like  myself,  not  very  good, 
Nor  very  bad  ;   no  precious  pearl. 

Or  perfect  flower  of  womanhood ; 

But  one  that  graced  and  understood 
Our  pleasant,  artificial  life, 
And  would  have  made  a  charming  wife, 

Had  she  been  only  gayly  w^ooed 
By  a  fine  redcoat  and  a  drum  and  fife. 

But  there  came  one  across  her  way, — 
A  Priest :  a  grave,  high-thoughted  man, 

Who  did  not  lag  behind  his  day, 
But  bravely  dared  to  lead  the  van 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  147 

Of  Progress  :  with  a  lofty  plan, 
'Not  counting  for  himself  the  jDrice, 
Up  the  great  stair  of  Sacrifice, 
Trod  by  the  meek  and  lowly  One, 
He  would  lead  our  gay  world  into  Paradise. 

He  came  across  her  path,  and  she 

Caught  up  his  dream,  and  dreamt  awhile ; 

She  came  across  his  path,  and  he 
Found  dreams  angelic  in  her  smile  \ 
He  had  no  knowledge,  she  no  guile:  — 

Leave  that  to  satire-novels ;  both 

But  dreamt  a  happy  dream,  not  loath  ; 
There  was  no  woman's  art  or  wile 
When  she  gave  to  him  freely  her  plighted  troth. 

And  for  a  while  she  strove  to  live 
His  life,  and  meekly  played  her  part ; 

And  for  a  while  she  tried  to  give 
Not  service  only,  but  her  heart 


148  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

To  sacred  work  and  thought  and  art ; 
To  help  the  poor,  tlie  sick  to  cheer, 
And  breathe  sweet  love  instead  of  fear 

Into  our  worship,  and  impart 
To  all  men  the  feeling  that  God  was  near. 

Why  do  I  dwell  on  this  ?  Because 
'T  was  not  herself,  but  he  that  spoke 

In  her.     And  soon  there  came  a  pause 
In  her  hot  zeal.     The  spell  was  broke, 
And  once  more,  her  old  self  awoke 

With  yearning  for  the  former  days, 

The  laughter  crisp,  the  empty  praise, 
The  dressing,  dancing,  and  the  flock 
Of  butterflies  sunning  them  in  her  rays. 

Then  by  and  by,  in  her  old  place 
We  met  her ;   first,  a  matron  meek, 

Come  to  diffuse  a  light  of  grace ; 
But  for  this  task  she  was  too  weak, 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  149 

When  guardsmen  gathered  round  to  seek 

The  old  smiles,  and  the  banter  light, 

And  midnight  chatter  sparkling  bright 

With  airy  bubbles ;   while  a  bleak 

Loneliness  reigned  in  her  home  all  night. 

What  would  you  ?     There  was  nothing  wrong 

In  our  sense,  only  flirting  gay. 
Meanwhile  the  grave  priest  went  along, 

With  heavy  heart,  his  weary  way, 

Heavier  hearted  every  day. 
Till,  as  a  shield  for  her  good  name, 
Weary  and  dreary  he,  too,  came 

To  ball  and  rout  and  drum  and  play; 
And  she  squandered  his  life  in  her  reckless  game. 

His  vow  to  cherish  her  he  deemed 

First  of  all  duties  binding ;    so 
The  glorious  dream  which  he  had  dreamed 

Of  a  great  batde  with  sin  and  woe, 


150  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 


And  dealing  them  a  deadly  blow, 
With  a  brave  woman  by  liis  side, 
Became  a  mournful  strife  to  hide 

A  broken  heart,  nor  let  her  know 
How  the  hope  and  the  light  of  his  soul  had  died.       J 

Now,  hear  me  :  I  too  had  my  dream. 

The  which  I  fondled  day  and  night, 
It  shed  upon  my  life  the  gleam 

Of  a  new  world  of  truth  and  right ; 

Nor  all  in  vain,  for  in  its  light 
I  see  as  I  had  never  seen 
Before ;  I  see  that  life  is  mean 

Without  the  purpose  and  the  might  - 
Of  a  noble  Faith,  and  a  Hope  serene. 

And  yet  't  is  but  a  dream  with  me, 

Vague,  feeble,  and  unsolid  :    I 
Am  of  the  world,  worldly ;    I  can  see. 

Admiring  still,  the  vision  high. 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  151 

And  feel  the  sentiment  and  sigh 
Of  truer  nature  in  my  breast, 
Our  artificial  world  confessed 

A  proven  vanity  and  lie,  — 
But  the  owl  sees  the  sunshine  and  winks  in  its  nest. 

I  am  not  fit  to  live  your  life, 

I  am  not  meet  to  share  your  thought, 
I  am  not  able  for  the  strife 

Of  any  high  and  glorious  lot, 

I  am  not  worthy  to  be  brought 
Into  companionship  of  those 
Who  heed  not  custom  as  it  goes. 

Who  heed  not  what  opinions  float. 
Who  heed  but  the  light  that  high  Reason  throws. 

I  will  not  be  to  you  a  care, 

A  burden  only  changed  for  death ; 

I  will  not  be  to  you  a  snare. 

As  she  was  to  the  Priest  of  Faith  ; 


152  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

You  shall  not  tremble  lest  the  breath 
Of  slander  dim  a  wife's  pure  name, 
And  feeling  shame  deny  the  shame, 
And  sadly  smiling  bear  the  scath 
Of  a  nature  too  shallow  to  get  much  blame. 

Na}',  think  not  tnese  are  motives  good 
Framed  but  to  hide  the  ill  I  do, 

Nor  drive  me  to  a  bitter  mood 

When  my  sore  heart  would  most  be  true 
And  faithful  and  tender  unto  you. 

I  have  done  wrong,  and  hide  it  not, 

But  yet  it  was  not  in  my  thought ; 
And  bitterly  your  heart  would  rue 
Blending  me  with  your  life  and  lot 

Therefore  my  dream  I  must  dispel. 
Therefore  my  love  I  must  refuse  ; 

It  was  a  sweet  and  tender  spell 
Of  soft  enchantment  I  did  use  : 


I 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  153 

I  was  to  blame  ;  I  therefore  lose 
The  one  great  bliss  I  ever  knew, 
The  false  love  which  yet  made  me  true, 

Bathing  me  in  its  cleansing  dews,  — 
But  I  know  it  grew  irksome  already  to  you. 

Nay,  don't  deny  it ;    it  was  right ; 

You  could  not  help  it ;    I  have  seen 
Often  the  anxious,  doubtful  light 

Of  those  true  eyes  when  I  have  been 

Showing  a  nature  small  and  mean ; 
I  've  watched  the  shadow  of  regret. 
The  pleading  look  when  our  looks  met, 

The  pain  and  fear  you  fain  would  screen,  — 
And  I  could  not  be  other,  and  cannot  yet. 

And  then,  too,  though  I  am  not  old, 
I  know  my  years  are  more  than  thine  ; 

And  that  quaint  thing,  your  sister,  told. 
By  many  an  angry  look  and  sign. 


154  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

That  she  did  more  than  half  divine 
That  I,  in  wanton  idlcssc,  angled, 
And  had,  with  crafty  art,  entangled 

Your  love,  and  strained  upon  the  line. 
Nor  cared  how  your  heart  was  torn  and  mangled. 

Little  she  knew, — but  let  that  pass; 

Perhaps  I  played  at  love  ;   perhaps 
The  game  to  earnest  grew,  alas ! 

Ere  I  could  mark  the  gradual  lapse. 

The  unnoticed  tide  crept  up  the  gaps, 
And  circled  us  with  foaming  sea, 
And  there  was  no  escape,  and  we. 

Enforced,  clasped  the  love  that  wraps 
Forgetfulness  in  its  ecstasy. 

Yet  mine  is  not  a  love  like  thine, 
Whicli  brooks  no  rival,  fears  no  ill. 

Which  time  would  mellow  like  old  wine, 
Which  hath  no  separate  end  or  will, 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  155 

And  is  content  with  loving  still. 
Such  life  would  grow  insipid  soon 
To  me,  and  tiresome  as  a  tune 

Ground  on  a  barrel-organ,  till 
A  change  were  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  June. 

It  should  not,  but  I  know  it  would; 

It  seems  as  if  some  evil  spell 
Were  on  me,  holding  me  from  good, 

And  from  the  peace  unspeakable ; 

There  is  that  in  me  like  a  bell 
Cracked  in  the  belfty,  where  it  swings 
Shaming  its  office,  for  it  rings. 

For  Christmas  cheer  and  passing  knell. 
The  same  false  note  for  all  truest  things. 

Women  are  fickle,  —  I  am  more  ; 

Women  are  contrary,  —  I  am  worse  ; 
Even  ficklest  women  can  adore, 

And  in  adoring  gain  a  force 


1^6  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

Which  holds  them  to  a  steadfast  course ; 
But  I  've  no  reverence  ;   mine  eyes 
Have  only  learnt  to  criticise, 

To  find  out  flaws,  and  trace  their  source, 
And  to  weary  of  folk  that  are  good  and  wise. 

I  love  enough  to  part  with  pain, 
But  not  enough  to  wed  thee  poor  ; 

I  dare  not  face  the  way  of  men 
Who  nobly  labor  and  endure, 
Seeking  a  great  life  high  and  pure. 

But  I  have  one  true  purpose  yet ; 

I  will  not  lead  thee  to  forget 
The  splendid  hope  of  glory  sure, 
Which  was  all  your  thought  until  we  two  met. 

Ah !   you  will  not  believe  the  truth. 
Because  it  shows  me  poor  and  mean  ; 

You  've  dreamt  that  I  am  all  in  sooth, 
AMiich  I  have  dreamt  I  might  have  been ; 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  i^y 

And  should,  perhaps,  if  I  had  seen 
In  early  years  the  generous  life 
Of  aspiration  high,  and  strife 

For  truth  and  love  and  faith  serene, 
Which  oft  you  have  pictured  for  you  and  your  wife. 

But  this  it  was  not  mine  to  see  ; 

A  household  ours  where  Home  is  not, 
We  carp  and  criticise,  and  we 

Never  do  anything  we  ought. 

Ah !    happy  was  your  sister's  lot ! 
My  brother  idles,  trifles,  spends, 
And  here  he  borrows,  there  he  lends, 

And  I,  like  him,  have  never  thought 
Of  doing  a  thing  that  makes  or  mends. 

Yet  we  must  eat  and  drink  and  dress. 

And  drive  in  carriages,  and  ride 
In  Rottenrow,  and  crush  and  press, 

Bejewelled  at  St.  James's,  tied 


1^8  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

Fast  to  the  chariot  of  our  pride, 
Have  spacious  rooms,  and  sumi)tuous  fare, 
And  waiting-maids  and  grooms  to  share 

Our  vicious  idleness,  and  hide 
The  dull  stupid  ennui  shot  with  care. 

It 's  all  a  lie,  this  life  we  lead ; 

And  breeds  in  all  of  us  sloth  and  sin ; 
The  coachman  wigged  and  tippeted, 

The  maid  who  cannot  sew  nor  spin. 

The  brawny  giant  that  let  you  in, 
Who  should  have  been  a  grenadier, 
They  're  good  for  nothing  before  a  year, 

Save  lazy  gossip,  tippling  gin, 
And  keeping  a  taproom,  and  drawing  beer. 

How  could  I  hope  to  escape  the  taint? 

I  've  not  escaped  it, —  I  am  just 
Like  all  the  rest,  on  folly  bent 

Like  all  the  rest,  —  devoured  with  rust 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  159 

Of  idleness  ;  a  hollow  crust 
Of  sentiment,  and  surface  wit, 
And  scraps  of  knowledge.     I  am  fit 

For  no  brave  life  of  love  and  trust, 
Or  a  home  where  the  lamp  of  truth  is  lit. 

You  think  I  draw  my  portrait  ill, 

Beclouded  by  some  fitful  mood  ; 
And  fancy  you  could  raise  me  still 

Into  a  nobler  world  of  good. 

'T  is  kindly  said ;  but  as  I  brood 
Over  the  thought,  I  seem  to  see 
You  failing  of  your  destiny  ; 

And  for  myself  I  never  could 
Live  the  life  you  have  painted  to  me. 

I  could  not  bear  the  poky  rooms 

Where  Bloomsbury  students  talk  and  smoke, 
I  'd  sicken  at  the  steamy  fumes, 

The  maid-of-all-vvork  would  evoke ; 


i6o  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

I  'd  sooner  hear  a  raven  croak 
Than  hearken  to  the  flow  of  wit, 
And  watch  the  gleams  of  genius  flit, 
While  shabby  artist  fellows  broke 
The  silence  with  laughter  loud  and  fit. 

'T  was  nice,  of  course,  to  hear  from  you 
About  their  wild  Bohemian  ways ; 

One  likes  to  know  how  people  do 
Who  are  not  in  the  world.     We  gaze 
Upon  their  splendid  works,  and  praise 

Their  genius,  and  we  long  to  hear 

About  their  naughty  vices  dear. 

So  charming  in  our  books  and  plays, 
Like  beings  quite  in  another  sphere. 

You  do  not  like  this  tone?     I  know 
You  hate  a  false,  affected  vein  ; 

What,  then,  if  we  were  bound  to  row, 
Like  galley-slaves,  together,  twain 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  igj 

Linked  each  to  each  by  loathsome  chain ; 
And  by  that  union  sundered  more, 
Until  the  fretting  bondage  wore 

Your  heart,  and  left  an  aching  pain, 
As  the  only  trace  of  the  love  you  bore  ? 

It  may  not  be,  it  may  not  be; 

'T  were  grievous  sin  in  me  to  wed 
A  soul  to  so  great  misery, 

Binding  the  living  with  the  dead. 

And  now  this  parting  word  is  said, 
We,  being  twain,  may  still  love  on, 
Who,  being  one,  had  turned  to  stone ; 

We  loose  our  vows,  but  link,  instead, 
Our  hearts  more  surely  to  love  alone. 

A  sad  love?     Yes!     I  call  to  mind. 

That  fisher-woman  long  ago 
Who,  in  the  storm  of  sleet  and  wind, 

Lost  all  her  sons  at  one  fell  blow, — 


162  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

Three  stalwart  men.     We  saw  her  go, 
Don't  you  remember?    with  her  dead, 
Side  by  side  the  corpses  laid, 

Three  long  black  coffins  in  a  row. 
On  the  bench  of  the  boat,  head  touching  head. 

Never  a  word  came  from  her  lips ; 

She  took  the  helm,  and  bent  the  sail, 
And  silently  slid  by  the  ships, 

Where  strong  men  sob,  and  women  wail  ; 

Across  the  bar  she  caught  the  gale. 
And  sped  on  o'er  the  darkening  wave 
Into  black  night :    she  never  gave 

One  sign,  but  tearless,  hard,  and  pale, 
Sailed  with  her  dead  to  their  father's  grave. 

And  now  I  go  like  her,  with  all 
My  dead  hopes  lying  cold  in  me  ; 

The  great  mist  cometh,  like  a  wall 
Of  darkness,  striding  o'er  the  sea ; 


1 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  163 

And  all  my  dead  are  orderly- 
Spread  out  beside  me ;   and  I  know 
That  they  and  I  together  go 

Into  the  black  night,  leaving  thee, — 
I  and  my  dead  hopes  all  in  a  row : 

Into  the  moonless,  starless  gloom. 
Into  the  gray  and  trembling  cloud, 

Night  closing  o'er  me  like  a  tomb, 
The  wet  mist  clinging  as  a  shroud, 
And  the  wind  wailing  dirges  loud:  — 

Men  will  call  it  a  wedding  ga}'', 

And  maids  will  flutter,  priests  will  pray, 
And  joy-bells  gather  the  viUage  crowd, 
To  toast  the  dead  on  her  bridal  day. 

Or  dead  or  worse ;   they  drive  me  mad  ; 

I  wot  not  what  the  end  may  be ; 
And  there  are  times  I  feel  so  bad, 

And  in  the  shadowy  future  see, 


164  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

In  dark  revenge  of  misery, 
A  sinful  woman  scorning  shame, 
Spurning  a  liateful  home  and  name. 

I  've  known  such,  yearning  to  be  free 
That  they  recked  not  either  of  guilt  or  blame. 

I  wot  not  what  it  means ;    but  now 

The  stories  of  your  gray  North  Sea 
Keep  running  in  my  head,  somehow ; 

And  weird  and  eerie  tales  they  be. 

Was  it  yourself  that  told  it  me? 
Or  some  one  else?  —  I  do  not  know  — 
How  'mong  the  isles  the  tide-waves  flow, 

Like  maddened  steeds  that  franticly 
Are  lashed  into  fury  as  on  they  go ; 

And  how  a  fisher-lad  was  once 

Caught  in  the  race,  and  swejDt  away ; 

And  how  his  oars,  by  evil  chance, 
Were  reft  from  him  ;   and  how  he  lay 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  165 

Helpless  among  the  tossing  spray; 
And  how  he  saw  the  grim  crags  loom, 
And  heard  the  big  waves  crash  and  boom, 
Through  mists  that  darkened  on  his  way, 
Darkened  and  deepened  like  walls  of  his  tomb ; 

And  how  his  heart  in  him  grew  cold, 

As  still  the  boat  went  hurrying  on. 
Past  foaming  skerry  and  headland  bold. 

Into  the  darkness  all  alone  3 

And  weird,  witch  forms,  with  eyes  of  stone, 
Looked  on,  and  mocked  with  laughter  dread. 
As  hungry  waves,  like  fierce  wolves,  sped. 

And  leaped  on  him  ;    and  hope  was  none ; 
And  he  fain  would  pray,  but  cursed  instead : 

And  how  he  lifted  up  his  hand 
To  pray  or  curse,  as  it  might  be, 

And  in  that  moment  grazed  the  land. 
When  something  smote  his  palm,  and  he 


l66  LOQUITUR  ROSE. 

Grasped  a  strong  rope  unconsciously, — 
A  fowler's  rope  that  dangled  there, 
Down  on  his  darkness  and  despair, 

Barely  dipping  the  swollen  sea, — 
And  the  half-uttered  curse  gasped  into  a  prayer. 

Even  so  am  I  on  fateful  tide 

Borne  on,  and  by  the  surges  tossed, 

And  helplessly  I  rock  and  ride, 
Alone,  and  in  the  darkness  lost, 
Haunted  by  many  a  mocking  ghost; 

No  help  without,  no  help  within. 

Forsaken  in  my  way  of  sin. 
Forsaken  by  myself  the  most, 
But  I  reach  out  in  vain  through  the  gloom  and  the  din. 

I  reach  out,  but  I  reach  in  vain ; 

No  help  for  me  ;  I  touch  the  shore ; 
They  only  push  me  back  again ; 

The  tide  sweeps  on,  the  waters  roar, 


LOQUITUR  ROSE.  167 

My  head  is  dizzy,  my  heart  is  sore ; 
I  reach  out,  but  no  help  is  near, 
A  cloud  is  on  my  soul,  and  fear, 
And  hate  and  madness  evermore 
Are  hissing  their  whispers  in  my  ear. 

There  is  no  cord  of  life  for  me 

Amid  my  darkness  and  despair ; 
Pity  me,  look  not  cold  on  me ; 

There  's  cursing  in  the  heart  of  prayer, 

And  cursing  in  the  very  air. 
Will  you  not  kiss  me  once .-'  and  say 
You  love  me  still  and  ever  ?     Nay  ? 

So  be  it.     Wherefore  should  I  care 
To  chafe  back  the  life  which  were  better  away. 

O  heart,  lie  dead,  and  feel  no  more  ; 

So  best,  if  I  must  still  live  on  : 
The  desert  life  that  lies  before 

Were  best  to  have  a  heart  of  stone. 


1 68  LOQCITUR  ROSE. 

Now  leave  me ;   I  would  be  alone. 
You  will  be  happy  yet,  and  free, 
And  I  accept  my  destiny. 

We  had  a  dream,  and  it  is  gone; 
And  I  wake,  but  there  's  no  day  breaking  for  me. 


i0oli   Bui\i< 


Home !  in  the  gray  old  house  beside  the  brook ; 
Home !  in  the  dim  old  room  among  his  books ; 
Home !  with  his  sister  sitting  by  his  side, 
And  a  fond  throng  of  clinging  memories 
Hovering  about  him,  as  the  swallows  fluttered 
Round  their  old  nests,  and  twittered  in  the  eaves, 
White-throated  :  there  he  lay  in  his  young  manhood, 
A  fever-flush  upon  his  wasted  cheek, 
And  a  fire  burning  in  his  large  gray  eye ; 
Waiting,  he  said,  for  that  uncourtly  valet 
Who  doth  unclothe  us  of  our  fleshly  robes, 
Preparing  us  for  sleep.     I  had  my  fears ; 
Yet  life  was  strong,  only  it  had  no  relish. 


172 


EDITORIAL. 


And  hope  was  broken  ;    and  the  springs  of  life 
Being  gone,  he  only  longed  to  see  the  end 
Of  its  hard  jolting.     Then  the  Doctors  came, 
And  tapped,  and  stethoscoped,  and  spoke  of  rales 
And  lesions  and  adhesions  and  deaf  parts, 
Cells,  stitches,  mucus,  coughs,  and  blisterings : 
And  then,  with  kindly  knowing  helplessness, 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  went  upon  their  way. 

But  he,  in  full  persuasion  that  the  end 
Had  well  begun,  was  tender,  cheerful,  kind  ; 
Not  bitter  with  this  world,  nor  troubled  greatly 
About  the  other  :    yea,  he  had  great  peace 
Thinking  of  Hester  and  me,  and  laying  plans 
About  our  wedding,   making  settlements 
Preposterous,  and  buying  heaven  knows  what 
From  heaven  knows  where,  but  restless  till  he  saw  it  ; 
Still  glad  to  hear  no  murmur  of  the  streets. 
And  see  no  pile  of  books  and  sorted  task- 
Urging  the  o'erwrought  brain,  and  hold   no  more 


EDITORIAL. 


173 


The  sluggish  pen  in  wear}^,  fevered  hand. 

Could  he  but  sleep  a  little !     Oft  he  lay, 

Seeing  old  faces  flit  by  as  in  dreams, 

Hearing  old  voices  talking  in  the  air. 

All  senses  strangely  keen,  and  fancy  quick, 

Yet,  as  it  were,  a  passive  instrument 

Played  on  by  passing  sounds  and  subtle  smells 

And  lights  and  shadows,  and  all  fleeting  things. 

At  peace  he  was  with  God,  at  peace  with  man ; 

Only  he  had  forgotten  how  to  sleep. 

I  'm  not  a  poet ;   I  have  no  romance, 

But  stand  by  facts,  and  laws  o'  the  Universe ; 

Though  doubtless   rhyme   and  rhythm   and   play   of 

fancy 
Are  facts  too,  and  have  laws  like  utter  prose. 
But  what  I  mean  is,  if  a  man  abuse 
Stomach  and  brain,  they  will  revenge  themselves 
For  sleepless  nights,  and  hastily  snatched  meals, 
And  life  at  fever-heat.     You  must  not  think 


174 


EDITORIAL. 


Of  a  heart  broken,  dying  in  despair 

Of  unrequited  love.     He  loved,  and  lost 

That  sweetest  relish  of  laborious  life 

Which  henceforth  was  all  labor,  —  that  was  all. 

It  did  not  change  his  spirit,  did  not  fill 

His  mouth  with  the  big  words  of  tragedy, 

Much  pitying  himself;   it  only  set  him 

Doggedly  to  his  task  of  work,  with  force 

Unbroken,  undivided,  unrelieved  ; 

And  therein  he  had  lived,  and  therein  found 

A  joy  and  fulness  of  life,  till  something  cracked 

With  the  overstrain  of  so  unresting  toil. 

Moreover,  he  had  planned  a  scheme  so  vast 

That  only  a  Goethe-Methuselah,  with  a  power 

Of  vision,  and  a  power  of  master-work, 

Prolonged  a  thousand  years,  had  seen  the  end  on  't. 

But  now  it  is  not  given  to  any  one 

To  overarch  the  structure  of  all  knowledge, 

And  crown  it  with  its  dome  and  golden  cross ; 

Nor  is  it  given  to  any  one  to  work, 


EDITORIAL. 


175 


As  God  does,  leisurely,  because  he  draws 

Upon  the  unmeasured  ages,  wherefore  he 

Alone  may  say  '"Tis  finished,  and  very  good." 

We  only  do  a  part,  and  partly  well. 

And  others  come  and  mend  it.     Thorold  tried 

Too  much  for  our  brief  life,  —  a  cosmic  work, 

And  toiled  to  do  it  in  his  week  of  days  . 

That  had  nor  fresh-breathed  morn  nor  restful  eve 

For  him.     So  he  broke  down,  a  wreck,  at  last, 

Achieving  but  a  fragment  of  his  thought, 

A  porch,  a  pillar,  and  an  outline  dim. 

Some  deemed  he  was  a  failure ;  others  saw 

The  germ  of  grand  discovery  in  his  thought, 

And  worked  it  to  their  profit.     Ah  !  well,  well : 

There  are  who  give  us  all  they  have,  complete. 

Nothing  omitted,  nothing  lying  behind, 

All  formulated,  tidy,  docketed. 

Tied  neatly  up  in  ribbons,  laid  in  drawers, 

And  handy  for  our  use,  —  an  entire  soul, 

With  all  its  thoughts  booked  up  to  the  last  hour 


176  EDITORIAL. 

In  double  entry:    these  don't  interest  me; 

I  know  them,  and  am  done  with  them  ;  they  have 

No  infinite  possibilities,  no  shadows 

Of  the  great  God  upon  them,  and  their  light 

Is  but  a  row  of  foot-lights  and  reflectors 

Shining  upon  the  stage,  and  on  themselves. 

Eut  others,  more  aspiring  than  achieving, 

Achieve  all  in  suggestion.     They  lie  down 

With  Nature,  as  Ruth  lay  at  the  feet  of  Boaz, 

Who  longed  for  his  upwaking,  and  yet  feared 

What  the  daybreak  might  bring ;  so  they  with  dread 

And  yearning  wait,  till  God  shall  speak  to  them 

The  thing  they  cannot  utter,  save  in  fragments, 

In  broken  strains  of  angel  melody, 

Or  visions  momentary  behind  the  veil ; 

Yet  more  suggestive  of  Divinity, 

]\Iore  helpful  by  their  infinite  reaching  forth 

Than  all  completed  thinking.     Thorold  thus 

Pushed  at  the  gates  of  God,  and  through  the  chink 

Caught,  wondering,  some  gleams  of  inmost  Light  ♦ 


EDITORIAL. 

Transcendent,  and  some  chords  of  harmony 
Entrancing;  unexpected  mysteries 
Of  unison  and  beauty,  heretofore 
Or  jarring,  or  divided,  blended  now 
In  reconcilino;  vision  of  higher  truth. 


177 


8* 


Iloquitur    (ITljorolti. 

'T^HANKS,  Hester  dear,  this  little  hand 

Was  always  gentle  ;   none  like  thee 
Can  smooth  a  pillow  in  all  the  land, 
Or  sweeten  the  sick-room  delicately : 
A  tender,  loving  hand  to  me,  — 
Too  good,  for  I  was  rough  and  bold  ; 
Now  let  me  to  the  sunshine  hold 
The  dainty  fingers  up,  and  see 
The  red  light  through,  as  in  days  of  old. 

How  sweet  the  day  gleams  through  the  faint 
Pink  curtains  of  the  dear  old  room, 

Like  heaven-sent  visions  of  a  saint 
Tinged  with  the  nature  they  illume ! 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  ^^^ 

You  've  kept  all  here  as  fresh  as  bloom, 
Just  as  it  was  long  years  ago ; 
I  have  not  felt  blanch  linen  so 
Lavender-sweet  since  fateful  doom 
Lured  nie  abroad  to  a  world  of  woe. 

The  old  flowers  through  the  window  toss 

Wafts  of  sweet  incense;   roses  pink 
Knock  at  the  pane,  cushioned  in  moss. 

And  yellow  buds,  too,  smile  and  blink 

Over  the  sill ;  and  as  I  drink 
The  fragrant  breath,  an  airy  jet 
From  the  sweet-pea  and  mignonette 

Falls  on  the  sense,  and  makes  me  think 
Of  the  old  bright  mornings,  dewy  wet. 

Why  should,  at  times,  a  passing  scent, 
Just  sniffed  a  moment  on  the  breeze, 

Its  sensuous  power  so  swiftly  spent, 
Come  laden  with  more  memories 


l8o  LOQUITUR    TJIOKOLD. 

Than  the  low  hum  of  honey-bees, 
Or  sound  of  old  familiar  strains, 
Or  rustling  of  the  autumn  grains, 
Or  voices  from  the  whispering  trees, 
Or  the  running  brooks,  or  the  pattering  rains. 

The  smell  of  these  moss-roses  sweet. 
More  than  aught  meets  the  ear  or  eye. 

Speaks  of  old  times,  and  seems  to  greet 
Me  kindly  from  the  days  gone  by:  — 
There  by  the  window  you  and  I 

Hearken  the  kirk  bell  in  the  air, 

I  see  our  mother  on  the  stair. 

And  white-capped  matrons  leisurely 
Trudging  along  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

They  are  all   gone,  all  sainted  now, 

All  clothed  in  raiment  clean  and  white  ; 

V\\\.\\  palm-crown  on  each  grave,  sad  brow 
They  stand  before  the  Fount  of  light, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  i8i 

And  praise  His  glory  day  and  night ; 
No  wrinkles  on  their  face  I  see, 
No  toil-rough  hand,  nor  stiffening  knee. 

Yet  clinging  to  their  glory  bright 
Is  the  scent  of  the  sweet  thyme  and  rosemary. 

How  the  old  books  look  bright  in  gold ! 

You  must  have  dusted  them  all  day 
To  keep  them  so  from  moth  and  mould. 

Those  were  school  prizes  near  you ;   pray 

Give  me  my  Homer,  that  I  may 
Smell  the  old  Russia  smell  once  more, 
And  feel  the  old  Greek  torrent  pour. 

Like  plashing  waves  on  shingly  bay, 
As  the  King  mused,  wrathful,  along  the  shore. 

Have  you  forgot  your  Greek,  and  all 

Our  quarrel  ?     How  you  would  have  sent 

Fair  Helen  from  the  Trojan  wall 

Back  to  the  King  of  men,   nor  spent 


l82  LOQUITUR    rilOROI.D. 

One  arrow  though  the  bow  were  bent, 
Nor  borne  a  dint  on  Hector's  shield, 
Nor  planted  banner  on  the  field, 
Nor  shouted  from  the  battlement, 
For  a  woman  whose  faithless  heart  could  yield. 

You  held  the  men  unfit  to  rule 

Who  'd  launch  their  galleys  on  the  deep, 

And  leave  their  realms  to  micklc  dule. 
And  lonely  wives  to  watch  and  weep, 
By  sandy  shore  and  rocky  steep. 

For  leman  false  and  lover  faint ; 

Yea,  were  she  pure  as  purest  saint, 
Better  have  died  than  so  to  keep 
The  kings  from  their  high  task  of  government. 

What  scornful  beauty  you  would  show 
In  scorning  beauty  and  its  charms ! 

How  eloquent  your  words  Avould  grow 
O'er  lordless  realms  and  vague  alarms, 


LOQUITUR    THCROLD.  183 

And  feeble  age  with  rusty  arms 
Fending  the  matrons,  while  the  men 
Were  bleeding  on  the  sand  or  fen, 

Or  dreaming  of  their  homes  and  farms. 
Or  fattening  the  lean  wolf  in  his  den. 

I  think  you  should  have  been  the  boy, 

You  were  so  politic  and  wise. 
Impatient  of  an  idle  toy. 

And  piercing  with  those  steadfast  eyes 

The  heart  of  all  great  enterprise. 
While  I  —  ah  me!  my  life  is  sped, 
Already  numbered  with  the  dead  ; 

And  with  the  vanities  and  lies 
Clasp  it  up  in  its  coffin  lead. 

Yes,  yes  ;    I  know  you  '11  say  me  nay  ; 

You  still  believe  in  me,  though  I 
Have  lost  faith  in  myself,  and  pray 

For  nothing  but  in  peace  to  die, 


l84  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

And  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 

0  sister's  fixith,  so  fond  and  true, 
Still  hiding  failure  from  our  view ! 

Close-clinging  ivy  green  and  high, 
That  covers  the  ruin  with  glories  new  ! 

Dear,  there  's  a  small  flower  lying  in 
My  Terence,  near  the  fortieth  page  : 

'T  was  the  first  honor  I  did  win 
In  science,  and  my  youthful  gauge 
Of  earnest  battle  to  assuage 

The  thirst  for  knowledge.    .Near  a  stone 

1  found  it  blooming  all  alone, 
Upon  an  eager  pilgrimage  : 

I  was  first  to  discover  where  it  had  grown. 

'T  is  almost  the  sole  mark  to  know 
That  I  have  lived ;    and  I  would  feel 

AVhat  then  I  felt  when,  bending  low, 
I  saw  its  delicate  petals  steal 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  185 

A  coy  glance,  almost  where  my  heel 

Had  crushed  the  treasure ;   and  I  drew 

A  long  breath,  trembling ;   and  I  knew 

The  passion  of  science,  and  the  zeal 

To  broaden  the  realm  of  the  known  and  true. 

I  found  it :   but  the  shepherd  lad 

Had  found  it  centuries  before, 
And  made  his  rustic  maiden  glad 

By  gilding  with  its  golden  store 

Her  golden  hair,  —  nor  cared  foi;^  more. 
We  find  we  know  not  what ;   we  know. 
And  idle  blossoms,  as  they  blow 

By  mountain  burn  or  cottage  door. 
Fashion  our  life  into  which  they  grow. 

That  litde  flower  gave  bent  to  all 
The  best  years  I  have  lived  on  earth 

To  any  purpose.     I  recall 

Gladly  our  days  of  childish  mirth. 


l86  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

The  blithe  home,  and  the  kindly  hearth ; 
But  a  rarer  light  still  gilds  the  hour, 
When  happening  on  this  tender  flower, 

I  found  an  impulse  that  gave  birth 
From  an  aimless  life  to  a  life  of  power. 

Of  power?     Ah  no!     This  life  hath  been 
Feeble  and  fruitless,  like  the  faint 

And  watery  glimmer  you  have  seen 
Of  broken  rainbows,  never  bent 
In  glory  athwart  the  firmament, — 

A  sickly  splendor,  would-be  light, 

That  had  not  beauty's  awful  might: 
And  now  the  bootless  years  are  spent, 
And  the  darkness  cometli  on  me  like  night. 

O  for  more  time!    a  little  more! 

I  am  so  young ;  and  I  had  planned 
So  many  years  for  gathering  lore. 

So  many  for  my  work  in  hand,  — 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  igy 

My  Book  which,  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Our  fragmentary  truth  should  knit 
In  cosmic  clearness,  wholly  lit 

And  by  one  sovran  doctrine  spanned  — 
And  now,  alas  !    it  will  never  be  writ. 

How  strangely  Destiny  is  ruled  ! 

This  small  pale  flower  became  my  lot ; 
And  all  my  wandering  fancies  schooled, 

And  gave  my  life  a  fixed  thought, 

Which  to  one  centre  all  things  brought; 
And  henceforth  this  base  earth  was  all 
Instinct  with  meaning,  prodigal 

Of  riches  ;    yet  there  cometh  not 
One  full-ripe  fruit  to  my  blossomed  wall. 

So  be  it ;  God  hath  ordered  all 

The  way  by  which  my  life  was  led. 

Success  it  had  not,  or  but  small ; 
Nor  care  I  now  for  laurelled  head, 


1 88  LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

Or  sleeping  with  the  glorious  dead. 
Slight  are  the  trophies  I  have  won, 
IMeagre  is  all  the  work  I  've  done ; 

But  I  have  lived,  at  least,  and  fed 
On  that  which  the  noblest  live  upon. 

And  now  that  we  are  here  alone, 
Sweet  sister,  let  me  tell  you  all ; 

I  could  not  speak  to  any  one 
As  unto  you.     Can  you  recall 
A  lovely  girl,  stately  and  tall, 

A  maiden  with  a  queenly  look, 

And  how  she  praised  my. little  book. 
And  spake  of  Fame  that  should  befall 
The  gray  old  house  by  the  brattling  brook? 

You  did  not  like  her  much,  I  know. 

But  there  was  never  maiden  fair 
Seemed  worth}',  as  queen  flower,  to  grow 

Well  gardened  in  my  heart  with  care, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  189 

The  chiefest  treasure  and  glory  there. 
Fond,  foolish  Hester!    you  could  see 
No  Eve  my  helpmate  fit  to  be 

Of  all  that  breathed  the  common  air, 
Unless  God  should  fashion  her  purposely. 

And  I  deceived  you,  Hester  dear, 
And  spake  of  loving  none  like  you, 

And  talked  of  seeking  a  career 
Of  ardent  toil  and  science  true, 
When  all  the  while  I  had  in  view 

Her  stately  form,  her  glorious  eye, 

Her  high  imperial  majesty 

Of  sovran  beauty ;  for  I  knew 
She  was  my  Fate,  to  live  or  to  die. 

And  so  I  left  the  dear  old  home. 
And  so  I  left  you,  sister  dear, 

And  precious  scroll,  and  cherished  tome. 
The  gathered  wealth  of  many  a  year ; 


190  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

And  listed  no  more  to  appear 
With  hammer  dcfily  bringing  forth 
The  buried  records  of  the  earth, 

Or  to  enhance  their  facts  with  clear 
Thought,  which  gives  to  them  all  their  worth. 

And  I  went  forth  from  thee  and  them 
To  the  great  world  of  London,  where 

Men  crowd,  they  say,  to  touch  the  hem 
Of  Wisdom's  robes,  and  breathe  the  air 
Of  serene  Science ;    and  the  care 

Of  a  wise  State  has  garnered  all 

Fruits  of  research,  since  Adam's  fall 
By  wisdom  made  our  wisdom  rare, 
And  man  forgot  what  we  now  recall. 

Heaven  help  me !     I  used  all  the  slang 
Of  penny-a-liner  big  words  then ; 
guessed  't  was  cant,  and  yet  I  rang 
The  changes  on  't,  like  other  men ; 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  191 

Sweet,  you  may  count  that  nine  in  ten 
Have  naught  to  say  but  cant  prolific ; 
The  pious  kind  is  more  terrific, 

But  there  's  as  much  in  people  when 
They  are  literary  and  scientific. 

Abhorred  it  is  of  scholar  true, 

High  musing  with  his  books  alone ; 
Abhorred  of  accurate  science  too, 

Slow-pondering  a  leaf  or  stone  ; 

But  fashion  has  its  torrid  zone 
Where  sages  in  a  week  shall  grow 
Ripe  and  ready,  and  seem  to  know 

All  that  long  painful  thought  hath  won 
From  the  heaven  above,  and  the  earth  below. 

I  left  you  then  Avith  little  truth 

In  me,  —  and  truth  alone  is  power; 

I  left  you  in  your  lonely  youth 

For  her  :  and  found  her  like  a  flower 


1 92  LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

Bee-haunted  in  the  sunny  hour, 
With  a  great  crowd  of  wits  and  beaux, 
And  varied  hum  of  verse  and  prose 

Encircling  her,  while  she  would  shower 
Several  influence  as  she  chose. 

And  they  were  mainly  fools,  —  a  set 
Of  parlor-pedants  chattering  science, 

Their  thoughts  all  tangled  in  a  net 
Of  hard,  dry  fact ;    the  pygmy  giants 
Hurled  at  the  gods  their  proud  defiance. 

Tracing  fit  genealogies 

Far  back  among  the  co^oa-trees, 
And  fondly  hugging  brute-alliance 
With  the  monkey  tribes  and  the  chimpanzees. 

All  heresies  of  art  came  there, 

All  heresies  of  science  too. 
And  theorists  were  free  to  air 

All  social  heresies,  and  new 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  193 

Commandments  that  a  man  should  do, 
And  women  who  had  wrongs  and  rights, 
And  patriots  from  disastrous  fights, 
And  geniuses  came  there,  who  grew 
Quicker  than  mushrooms  overnights. 

A  Babel  of  confused  tongues ! 

A  Limbo  of  the  inchoate  ! 
A  gasping  of  distempered  lungs 

That  blamed  the  air,  and  not  their  state! 

All  fain  to  mend  the  world  and  fate, 
All  hating  labor,  and  the  slow 
Results  that  from  its  patience  grow ; 

And  O  the  froth  was  very  great 
As  they  swirled  and  eddied  to  and  fro. 

Yet  wherefore  should  I  speak  in  scorn  ? 

God  made  them  in  their  kind,  and  he 
Had  use  for  them,  at  least  had  borne 

With  their  most  flippant  vanity  : 

9  .  .  M 


194  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

As  in  his  Universe  we  see 
A  province  for  all  meanest  things; 
Even  for  the  earthworm's  twisted  rings 

A  service  and  a  ministry, 
To  silence  our  hasty  cavillings. 

And  London  is  not  One.     It  is 

A  group  of  vil'.ages,  a  lot 
Of  clic^ues  and  clubs  and  coteries; 

Where  the  fresh  fact  or  novel  thought, 
I     Filtered  from  stage  to  stage,  may  not 
Long  time  the  simple  fact  remain, 
Or  thought  as  sent  from  the  thinker's  brain; 

Rogues  sweat  their  sovereigns  ;   fools,  I  wot, 
Clip  smaller  the  thoughts  of  their  wisest  men. 

But  she  ?     Well,  she  was  like  a  spring 
Of  purest  water,  cold  and  clear. 

Where  bright  birds  come  to  preen  their  wing, 
And  owls  and  ravens  too  appear: 


LOQUITUR    TIIOKOLD.  195 

She  mirrored  all  as  they  drew  near, 
And  they  all  drank,  and  left  no  trace ; 
But  each  man  deemed  he  saw  his  foce 

Deep  in  her  heart,  and  had  no  fear 
That  the  shadow  changed  when  he  changed  his  place. 

Me  for  a  while  she  honored  with 

Selectest  intercourse  of  few, 
Rehearsing  every  night  a  myth 

Of  what  I  was,  and  how  I  grew 

In  a  lone  country-house,  and  knew 
Science  like  Pascal,  with  no  aid, 
Except  the  quaintest  little  maid 

Who  was  a  delicate  genius  too. 
And  how  she  had  drawn  me  out  of  the  shade. 

I  tired  of  this  ;   't  was  weary  all, 
And  all  unlike  the  glorious  dream. 

Which  now  with  smiles  I  can  recall, 
Of  a  fair  woman  who  did  seem 


1^6  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

Down  on  my  lower  world  to  gleam, 
Like  something  from  the  heavens  untainted, 
And  for  whose  love  my  spirit  fainted. 

And  would  all  lowliest  worship  deem 
Too  poor  for  her  I  had  shrined  and  sainted 

Perhaps  I  judged  her  wrong ;   her  way 
Was  harder  than  at  first  I  knew  ; 

Her  young  life  panted  to  be  gay, 
Her  young  heart  panted  to  be  true, 
Her  home  was  all  divided  too, 

False  science  false  religion  met. 

And  lavish  waste  with  scrimping  debt ; 
Poor  heart !    the  wonder  is  she  grew 
Half  so  noble  as  she  was  yet. 

You  did  not  know,  —  you  could  not  guess; 

But  we  had  plighted  love  before ; 
We  pledged  it  in  a  long  caress 

One  evening  on  the  gray  sea-shore, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  i^-j 

As  thought  came  surging  like  the  hoar, 
Wild,  bursting  waves  upon  the  beach ; 
It  was  a  passion  beyond  speech, 
Ne'er  quite  articulate,  and  the  more 
Dumb  that  its  hope  seemed  so  far  out  of  reach. 

And  I  do  think  she  loved  as  well 

As  she  could  love ;   at  any  rate 
I  will  not  judge  her,  but  will  tell 

The  sorry  issue  of  my  fate. 

I  spake  :    she  said  she  might  not  wait 
For  the  slow  ripening  of  my  fame, 
And  the  high  honors  that  my  name 

Would  win  for  some  more  worthy  mate. 
But  she  would  cherish  it  all  the  same. 

Enough !   why  dwell  on  it  ?     She  chose, 

After  her  kind,  one  of  the  set ; 
A  man  of  blue-books,  cold  and  close, 

A  scientific  baronet, 


Ifjg  LOQUITUR    rirOROLD. 

A  creature  who  would  vex  and  fret 
Her  soul  wilh  circumstantials, 
And  pottering  among  chemicals, 

And  prosing  about  funded  debt, 
And  his  articles  in  the  serials. 

So  all  was  over.     I  had  striven 

'Gainst  clearest  proofs,  to  prove  them  wrong, 
Had  fought  with  doubts,  as  if  for  Heaven. 

To  cherish  a  delusion  strong : 

And  O  the  cruel,  bitter  tlirong 
Of  haunting  memories  that  came. 
Still  summoned  by  her  cherished  name, 

Sweeping  like  mocking  ghosts  along. 
As  the  dreary  night-wind  shook  the  window-frame ! 

Seemed  now  the  world  a  weary  waste, 
A  heartless  world,  a  thing  to  scorn  ; 

'T  was  only  coldness  made  the  chaste, 
And  Cupid  was  of  Plutus  born  ; 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  jf^Q 

And  evermore  my  soul  was  torn 
With  jealous  rage  to  think  of  him, 
The  dainty  prig,  so  spruce  and  trim, 

Whose  acres  made  my  heart  forlorn, 
Whose  love  was  naught  but  a  summer  whim. 

Then  turned  I  to  my  work.     Not  mine, 

I  said,  to  pule  for  woman's  love; 
With  searching  thoughts  will  I  entwine 

Round  Nature's  porches ;   I  'm  above 

Being  a  slight  girl's  silken  glove 
Shaped  to  her  hand,  and  laid  away. 
Or  taken  u^d,  as  fancy  may  : 

I  have  a  problem  high  to  prove, 
And  the  facts  to  gather,  and  set  in  array. 

Alone,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
Alone  through  many  a  silent  night, 

I  wended  on  my  patient  way, 

Groping  through  darkness  into  light. 


oo  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

Now  sore  perplexed,  now  staggered  quite, 
Yet  slowly  working  out  a  thought 
That  all  to  clearest  order  brought : 
It  held  me  with  a  spell  of  might, 
And  my  days  were  happy,  for  I  forgot, 

Happy,  for  I  forgot !     Ah  me  ! 

I  met  her  one  day  in  the  street, 
Looking  so  sorrow-stricken  !    he 

Was  glancing  at  his  dainty  feet, 

And  with  his  ready  smirk  would  greet 
Me  heavy-laden  :   but  I  hid 
My  sorrow  as  a  thing  forbid. 

And  while  my  pained  heart  madly  beat, 
Silently  into  the  throng  I  slid. 

Again  I  met  her  in  the  Park  ; 

I  was  then  thin  and  worn  and  faint ; 
It  was  about  the  gathering  dark. 

And  scarcely  did  she  know  me  bent 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  31 

With  toiling  clay  and  night.     I  went 
Close  to  her  carriage,  and  she  said, 
"  Cruel !    I  hoped  to  crown  your  head 

With  laurel  ;   must  my  care  be  spent 
On  pallid  flowers  for  a  grave,  instead  ? " 

A  weary  look  was  in  her  eye, 

A  wasting  grief  on  her  cheek  so  pale ; 

And  in  my  heart  then  muttered  I, 

"  So,  the  stony  heart  has  an  unheard  wail 
Low  moaning  on  the  midnight  gale, 

And  sighing  now  for  love  like  mine. 

When  love  alone  is  felt  divine. 
And  life  is  flat,  and  riches  stale. 
And  the  soul  awakens  to  long  and  pine." 

An  evil  thought !     God  pardon  me  ; 

The  fevered  joy  of  passion  fell, 
A  lurid  light,  could  only  be 

Glared  upward  from  the  depths  of  hell ! 
9* 


52  ■  LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

Nay,  be  not  wrotli  :    I  loved  her  well, 
Loved  her,  and  love  is  ne'er  in  vain, 
Loved  her,  and  found  in  all  its  pain 

A  dew  and  blessing,  and  the  swell 
Of  a  life  that  joyed  like  the  bounding  main. 

And  I  had  died  in  early  youth 

At  any  rate.     O,  blame  her  not ; 
She  did  but  make  my  path  more  smooth, 

And  shed  some  sunlight  on  my  lot. 

I  had  of  old  this  hectic  spot,  — 
Our  mother's  gift  of  delicate  bloom  : 
And  it  is  well  she  'scaped  the  doom 

Of  early  widowhood.     I  sought 
To  wed  her  young  life  to  a  fated  tomb. 

And  as  I  loved  her,  you  will  love. 
And  gently  scan  her,  hap  what  may ; 

Sweet,  as  we  hope  to  meet  above, 
You  promise,  ere  I  go  away. 


LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD.  203 

There,  kiss  me  in  pledge  of  it.     I  lay 
A  wager  that  's  your  Hermann  strong, 
His  deep  bass  booming  a  Luther-song 
Out  of  a  heart  as  big  as  gay : 
What  a  great  life  is  that  coming  tramping  along ! 

Would  I  be  like  him  ?     Nay,  not  now ; 

Best  as  it  is,  dear  :    all  is  best. 
I  've  lived  my  life ;   and  gladly  bow 

Unto  the  high,  supreme  Behest, 

As  I  draw  near  the  hour  of  rest, 
Leaving  no  care  behind  me  here  : 
Soon  all  the  mystery  shall  be  clear, 

Or  in  high  fellowship  of  the  Best 
Little  we  '11  heed,  with  the  great  God  near. 

My  sun  sinks  without  clouds  or  fears  ; 

No  spectral  shadows  gather  round 
The  gateway  of  the  endless  years. 

Where  we,  long  blindfold,  are  unbound. 


204  LOQUITUR    THOROLD. 

And  lay  our  swath ings  on  the  ground, 
To  face  the  Eternal.     So  I  rest 
Peacefully  on  the  Strong  One's  breast, 

Even  though  the  mystery  profound 
Ever  a  mystery  be  confessed. 

My  old  doubts?  —  Well,  they  no  more  fret, 

Nor  chafe  and  foam  o'er  sunken  rocks. 
I  don"t  know  that  my  Faith  is  yet 

Quite  regular  and  orthodox  ; 

I  have  not  keys  for  all  the  locks, 
And  may  not  pick  them.     Truth  will  bear 
Neither  rude  handling,  nor  unfair 

Evasion  of  its  wards,  and  mocks 
Whoever  would  falsely  enter  there. 

But  all  through  life  I  see  a  Cross, 

Where  sons  of  God  yield  up  their  breath 

There  is  no  gain  except  by  loss, 
There  is  no  life  except  by  death, 


LOQUITUR    rilOROLD.  205 

There  is  no  vision  but  by  Faith, 
Nor  glory  but  by  bearing  shame, 
Nor  justice  but  by  taking  bhame ; 
And  that  Eternal  Passion  saith, 
"  Be  emptied  of  glory  and  right  and  name." 

Anselm  and  Luther,  Tauler,  Groot, 
With  reverent  search  and  solemn  awe, 

Saw  each  some  angle  of  God's  great  thought. 
Saw  none  of  them  the  perfect  Law, 
And,  in  defining  much,  some  flaw 

Marred  all  their  reasoning ;   nor  may 

I  fashion  forth  the  truth  which  they 
Only  in  broken  fragments  saw ; 
But  the  way  of  the  just  is  to  trust,  and  pray. 

I  wonder  how  the  twilight  shines 

On  the  tinkling  brook  that  cleaves  the  hill, 
And  how  it  rays  with  great  broad  lines 

Through  rifted  clouds  that  slumber  still, 


2o6  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

And  how  the  fall  that  turned  our  mill 
Glistens,  and  how  the  shadows  fold 
Around  the  dew  as  niglit  grows  cold, 

And  how  the  lark  with  tuneful  bill 


Sings  o'er  the  meadows  we  loved  of  old. 


I  ever  loved  our  earth,  and  still 

I  love  its  scaurs  and  brooks  and  braes, 

The  long  bleak  moor,  the  misty  hill, 
And  all  their  creatures,  and  their  ways. 
And  many  waters  sounding  praise ; 

It  seems  as  if  my  lingering  feet 

Clung  to  its  moss  and  grasses  sweet, 
And  ferny  glades,  and  golden  days 
When  cowslips  and  lad\birds  made  our  hearts  beat. 

Throw  up  the'  window  ;  let  me  hear 
The  mellow  ouzel  once  more  sing, 

The  carol  of  the  skylark  clear. 
The  hum  of  insects  on  the  wing, 


LOQUITUR    THOROLD.  207 

The  lowing  of  the  kiiie  to  bring 
The  milkmaid  singing  witli  her  pail, 
The  tricksy  lapwing's  far-off  wail, 

The  woodland  cushat's  murmuring. 
And  the  whish  of  the  pines  in  the  evening  gale. 

Fain  would  I  carry  with  me  all 

Blithe  Nature's  blended  harmony ; 
The  half-notes  and  the  tremulous  fall 

Of  her  young  voices,  and  the  free 

Gush  of  full-throated  melody  \ 
And  like  a  child,   I  'm  loath  to  go. 
And  leave  the  elders  to  the  flow 

Of  speech  and  song  and  memorj', 
And  take  me  to  sleep  in  the  room  below. 

But  I  can  yet  take  up  the  pra^'er 
Of  childhood  at  the  mother's  knee,  • 

And  breathe  it  as  the  natural  air 
Of  truest  Faith  and  Piety, 


2o8  LOQUITUR    TIIOROLD. 

r 
Its  meanings  deepening  as  I  see 

My  deeper  needs,  his  deeper  light; 

For  wonder  grown  to  wisdom  might 

Find  there  fit  utterance  and  a  key 

To  the  thoughts  that  reach  to  the  Infinite. 


My  Father,  lo !  the  end  draws  near, 
And  in  thy  presence  I  am  dumb ; 

Have  mercy  on  my  lowly  fear, 

And,  Father,  let  thy  kingdom  come  : 
I  thank  thee  for  my  daily  crumb  ; 

Forgive  me,  as  I  do  forgive ; 

And  in  my  dying  may  I  live; 

And  when  the  hours  of  trial  come, 
Help  and  deliverance  do  thou  give. 

trijc  Enti. 


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